


Song of Splendor

by TactheJoker



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:58:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/pseuds/TactheJoker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, love, and wrestling</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Business

**Author's Note:**

> Triple H/Undertaker
> 
> The players: Triple H, The Undertaker, Pat Patterson
> 
> I'm not sure if the broken ribs really did happen; I heard HHH talking about it in the build-up to WM-27, but I haven't found anything to support that story. Either way, it sounds cool. :)
> 
> THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY. The a fore mentioned characters all belong to themselves and the fine company of WWE and Vince McMahon owns it.

When the doors to the arena opened that afternoon there was already a sizable crowd waiting outside to enter; the first match didn’t start for another two hours, but there was much to be done before then.

As the crowd filled the wide commons area of the arena they began to break off into groups, going one way and another; some filed to the concessions stand to get a pre-match snack and some went straight to the gift kiosks to purchase colorful paraphernalia to celebrate their favorite wrestlers and show their support. Beyond these eager shoppers were smaller clusters of men and woman who milled together and spent money on the somewhat illicit yet entertaining unsponsored activity of gambling. In corners of the commons, away from prying eyes, money exchanged hands as the people of all ages bet on who would win what title – anywhere from nickels and dimes passed between nervous thirteen-year-olds to near three hundred dollars amongst adults; if bets were between friends then just a purchase of a pop or buying a round or two at the local bar would serve just as well. 

Some people stood in small groups and discussed the men that were billed that evening; they compared previous matches, tried to gauge who had the upper-hand and with the fervor of a religious zealot they declared the shinning merits of their favorites and the sins of the wrestlers they shunned. Old-timers, who’d been watching the show in the days of Sammartino and the original ‘Nature Boy’ Buddy Rogers, reminisced with sad smiles and sparkling eyes of fond memories to the younger men and women who listened with eager wonder. They talked about the AWA, NWA, GCW, and the WWF back when McMahon Sr. ran it – when it was called the WWWF, and many, many more; they recalled how it used to be with each territory having their own superstar that represented them and that one territory never leaked into another. They talked with some regret about how it would never be so again now that Vince McMahon had purchased and absorbed all the territories in the country; some spoke about it with irritation, and others spoke with a resigned shrug saying, “That’s progress for ya.” 

Amongst the adults children could be seen running between legs of the crowd and chasing each other around, proud in the knowledge that, in their minds, they were now veteran spectators though only on their second or third viewing. They pretended to be their favorite wrestlers and mimed the moves and promos they had seen on television and studied with the seriousness of a college student cramming for a make-or-break final. Sons and daughters on the first match of their lives, small and wide-eyed against the sea of people, held tight to the hands of their fathers and mothers and tried to absorb everything they were seeing as well as listen while their parents described the first matches they themselves went to – recollecting more to themselves than to their children for their own nostalgic benefit. 

Despite some friction created by rival fans verbally defending the honor of their heroes there was a general air of enjoyment and community amongst the patrons of the arena; this was a group of people who came from all walks of life, yet were all brought together by one love – wrestling. Like some live for football or baseball these people lived for the spectacle and drama of this new incarnation of ancient Greek theater – thriving on the triumphs of their heroes and suffering with them in their downfall.

Though they were ridiculed for their enjoyment of this sport the fans never let it get them down for long – the show was what they loved and kept coming back for, and no amount of mockery could shame them enough to keep them away. They were the heart of the business – the throbbing pulse that kept the world of wrestling alive and forever changing with times. 

The wrestlers had a great love for their fans – without them they’d be nothing, and knew that in no sport was there a greater fan loyalty to be found. Knowing this gave the wrestlers strength to go on when any normal athlete would quit and recuperate; they gave their audience everything they had and more, and the audience knew and appreciated it.

Around the back of the arena was where all fans longed to go, but security was too tight and intimidating for all but the very confidant to attempt to slip by; this was where the trucks came in to unload the pyro, the lights, the cameras, and that most sacred alter to wrestling fans: the squared circle – the ring.

This backdoor area was also where the wrestlers, both babyfaces and heels alike, entered in a discrete fashion, away from the excited throngs of fans. As much as the wrestlers relied on and loved their supporters there was a large portion of the business that needed to be kept from secret from them – the less they knew about their heroes and villains the better, the less they understood about how the business worked the better. 

Through this back entrance walked a tall, brooding man; he stood head and shoulders over most of the wrestlers he worked with and even if they towered over him his mere presence was enough to make the big and broad men take a respectful step back. His partly dyed black hair was pulled back into a quick ponytail – veins of his natural red gleamed through like exposed blood-vessels, and the rich smell of the black leather jacket he wore followed him through the halls. This was a man who had joined the WWF only five years before and had already gouged a deep mark in the wrestling world that no other superstar, past or present, would ever be able to match. The dark entity he embodied every week drew the crowds unlike anyone else and inspired both fear and awe in the fans. The man was Mark Callaway, the entity was the Undertaker.

Mark slung his duffle-bag over his shoulder and headed down the hall; to anyone outside the business he would have been called crazy to do the work he did day after day and night after night, but he didn’t care. Yes, another night would be spent getting thrown about the ring, yes he would be slammed into turnbuckles, bumped back-first onto the mat, punched in the face, kicked in the groin, and delivering back as good as he got.  
God-damn he loved this job.

As he went deeper into the bowels of the arena he could hear the drone of the near two-thousand fans that were gradually filling the seats around the ring – it was a buzz in his ears and an ever-present throb in the back of his head. He felt a tingle in his stomach and shivered in anticipation – thinking of the drone that he and the other wrestlers tonight would turn into roars. That sound, that glorious, deafening pop was what each of them worked for; it was why they did this job, why they dragged themselves across the country two hundred and even three hundred-plus days of the year. 

He found an empty, quiet spot in the locker-room and set about changing; black singlet, tights and trunks of the same, black tattered shirt, purple gloves, and tall black boots with grey, knee-high slips. One of the make-up women came in and touched his face up with white-foundation to make him look pale, sliding the foam triangle over his high, rounded forehead and following the contour of his sloping nose. She dabbed under his hooded eyes to make them look sunken into his skull and blended in lines under his eyes. When she had finished and left he stood to inspect her work; going over his own face he combed his nails through his dyed black goatee that framed his wide, thin-lipped mouth – a mouth that was slow to a smile, but quick to a minute upturn at the corners. If one saw this knowing quirk of the lips it would seem to the viewer that the tall wrestler had seen through every wall of bull-shit people throw up to shield their true selves, and finds the remaining quaking figure amusing. 

He straightened, satisfied as always with the make-up artist’s work; his cadaverous look was complete, but just one last thing. He grabbed a water-bottle and wet his head until his hair was sopping and hanging in black and red vines over his shoulders and in front of his made-up face. He was ready.

As he headed to Gorilla position the other wrestlers nodded to him when they passed by; the ones who were vets in the business gave him a slap on the upper arm and a grunt of ‘Good luck’ which he returned, and the new blood gawked and shrank away from his tall figure as he strode down the hallway – only two were able to muster up enough courage to nod to him, but none could find enough to say a word.

Mark didn’t mind – he was one of the few in this company who could say without ego that the startled look on the faces of the new and young wrestlers was because of his fame. As the Undertaker he had quickly made a name for himself, taking the character seriously and turning him into something to be admired and feared both in and out of the ring rather than the joke it could so easily have turned into.

He stood in position, just inside the curtain; he heard the fog machines start up, saw the lights go out, and heard the resounding toll of a massive bell the overture to his entrance.

‘GONG’

He allowed himself one small smile as he heard the crowd scream its excitement for him, and stepped out into the fog-bank, stoic as a corpse and ominous as Death itself.

* * *

“Jesus-fuck!” Mark growled as Pat Patterson pressed his hand into his side. More curses followed, twinged with angry Texas inflection as the veteran felt up and down his left side with an expression that grew darker with each touch.  
“I tink dey all’re broken, kid.”  
“No shit.” Mark grunted; he was finding it difficult to breathe – not impossible, but this injury was quickly making him appreciate having a solid, un-crunched ribcage. 

It had all gone wrong, so goddamn wrong – he’d over-sold that slam on to the turnbuckle, jumped when he’d been thrown into it, hit it too high; the top edge had hit his side – bruised his ribs when he’d hit, he was sure. He had bent over, startled momentarily out of kayfabe, and then came his opponent. The ass-wipe hadn’t held back – he was supposed to just brush him and let Mark do the selling, but his full body-weight landed on Mark. He could still hear the ‘crunch’ of his ribs as they collapsed against the turnbuckle; either his opponent had forgotten to check himself in the heat of the moment, or he thought he’d be cute and try to make a name for himself by taking down the ‘Taker.   
From what he’d heard of this guy, Mark was inclined to believe the latter. But Mark had finished the match – he could hold his head high with that knowledge. No one was going to fucking take him down.

He grimaced as Pat touched his side again, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. “Anythin’ you can do?” He asked the veteran.  
“Me?” Pat coughed out a laugh without humor. “What d’ya tink I look like? Jeezuz-fucking-Christ? Dis ting gonna need a long time’a healin’.”  
“I go on again in twenty minutes;” Mark was trying to breathe slow, saturate his lungs with air, and calm his buzzing mind down so he could concentrate on what he needed to do. “Just find me somethin’ I can pad my side with for now, somethin’ thick.”  
“You goin’ back out dere?” Pat asked in astonishment.  
“I’m billed, what the Hell else am I gonna do? Jus’ hurry up and get somethin’!”  
Pat whistled, “You one tough sonovabitch.”

He yelled orders to the stage-hands and they dashed off in a hurry; by now word had spread through the locker-room, and some of the guys had wandered over to take a peek at all the commotion and at the lone, injured wrestler straddling the bench. Among the wrestlers was a young man with long blond hair and a large downward curving nose named Hunter; he’d been with the WWF for a little over a year, and like many young hopefuls in this company he prayed for many more years in the ring. He didn’t have much support from the other guys backstage because he had made friends with a group of men who weren’t well-liked, but he couldn’t care less.   
The stagehands ran back into the locker room with what looked to be a flack-jacket and a roll of duct tape.

“Now what are they going to do with that?” One of the young wrestlers asked; Hunter had put it together already, and couldn’t believe what he was seeing - his eyes grew wide as they duct-taped the flack-jacket to the Undertaker’s broken left side. After a lot of pained grunts the big man stood, albeit – stiff and with a wince, but he walked out of that locker room on his own two feet and went back out into the arena to massive cheers. Hunter fell back against the cold cement wall numb with astonishment at what he had witnessed.

_‘Christ,’_ he thought. _‘That’s what we have to be willing to do here?’_  
If he was expected to take that kind of punishment and still perform…God-damn, he was really going to have to step up his game.


	2. The Truth is a Funny Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is indeed a funny thing - sometimes it rings true where it should, and sometimes it rings a little too loud where you wish it wouldn't.

About a year later, Mark was sitting in a bar with his good friend, Bret Hart. They were drinking, swapping road-stories, and having an all-around good time; a favorite past-time of these two when they’d get together would be to get into friendly competitions – one of their preferred being who could pick up a girl first. 

The rules were: if they didn’t recognize you right off the bat no hinting that you were a wrestler and there-fore possibly famous and wealthy. Points added if you could get a hot girl away from her group of friends. Points deducted if the girl was just getting with you to make her boyfriend jealous. And automatic disqualification if you slipped the girl some money or promised her a drink if she’d just act like you’d been slick enough to entice them away for the night. 

Bret had never been disqualified, but Mark had been a few times – not that he’d ever had much problem picking up women, but sometimes he’d needed that edge because Bret was a very attractive man. Mark was…well…by most standards he was no beauty, but if he could keep his target interested for just two seconds his hooded eyes, slight smile, and Texas accent did the rest. 

The only other rule when they played was men didn’t count – Bret didn’t like men that way, and said it would give Mark and unfair advantage; Mark accepted, but wished he could find a handicap that had to do with Bret’s already being married to give himself a leg-up in the competition. 

Yes, Bret was married, and had a son with another child on the way, but didn’t let that stop him from picking up the ladies – with or without the game; Mark remained silent on this issue – it wasn’t his business what Bret did when he was away from home; Bret’s wife, Julie, already knew of his infidelities, and had even angrily confronted him about it on several occasions, threatening divorce if Bret didn’t stop. So he’d quit with the tail-chasing for a while – long enough to calm Julie down, and once she was back in her happy little world of marital bliss he’d be right back in the game like nothing had happened. You could almost set your watch by them.

Many thought she was pretty dumb to stay with him if she was always going to get worked up about his cheating, but that was her deal, and Mark wouldn’t say ‘boo’ about it, so he never discouraged Bret in any way – why ruin the fun? The man seemed to know what he was doing. Despite that little hitch they enjoyed this particular game, but some nights Mark would get a little bothered by Bret’s selective nature when it came to who he’d stoop to picking up. The Canadian had the annoying habit of acting scornful about prostitutes and ring rats – women and men who hung around for sex after the matches. Bret thought they were low and disliked their promiscuity – which Mark thought was laughable for obvious reasons. 

Tonight, however, this particular game would not take place, nor would their other favorite game: who can take the most shots without either throwing up or passing out. An early wake-up tomorrow for a long-ass drive to a taping in the afternoon prevented any sort of fun from happening in excess. They were trying to keep the alcohol buzz down to a minimum, though normally, Mark could drink Bret under the table; it was very difficult, however, not to try and goad the other into proving themselves the manliest man. Any other time, Mark was unwilling to get into such a competition with most people, but Bret was one of the few he allowed. 

The two of them had been friends since Bret put Mark over at Mark’s first televised event in the WWF, and their friendship had grown fast; the Texan admired the Canadian for his work-ethic and his easiness with the boys in the locker-room. He knew a lot of the guys looked up to Bret and saw him as a bit of a general for them – leading by example and smoothing over conflicts between other wrestlers, but was still able to remain one of the boys. Bret had a mutual respect for the younger Texan – work-ethic being the biggest reason, but also because of the way he handled himself in the ring and the locker-room. Mark couldn’t see it yet, but Bret could – he knew how the guys were starting to take Mark’s opinions of their work to heart and were going to the Texan more and more for advice. Bret was glad to see Mark being appreciated by not only the boys but also by the company; his pay was big and his exposure even more-so – his title wins earned by hard-work and creativity.

Bret was happy for his friend, but if he was being honest with himself – and his wife would rightly say it was rare that he ever was, there was upset and anger boiling just below the surface, thinly disguised as frustration. Bret felt he wasn’t getting the recognition that he, himself, felt he deserved; no matter how many times he put other guys over or worked when he was sick or hurt he never got the fulfilled promises from Vince that the boys in the Kliq got.

He frowned when he thought about that group. He always saw the Kliq strutting around the locker-room with smug grins on their faces – knowing they were untouchable because they had Vince’s ear; it disgusted him, how much they got away with and how they monopolized the title belts. He comforted himself by thinking that they might have the titles, but they didn’t have the respect of the boys in the back, and they never would.

Small comfort though, and Bret, wanting support of his grievances and knowing Mark felt the same way, gestured with his head over to where the five members of the Kliq hung out around the bar – being loud and rowdy as usual. They were keeping away from the other wrestlers, and their fellows were keeping away from them; to the two men it was amazing to them that five men could accrue so much intense dislike from so many of their colleagues – people you should be trying your best to get along with, but they all seemed to be working together to make everyone’s lives that much more difficult.

They shared a mutual sigh, Mark’s one of disapproval and Bret’s of great dislike. The group had a lot of influence with Vince, and was able to monopolize the title belts. Worse than that, they held back talent, both old and new, when it suited their needs; for these and numerous personality reasons, the faction was hated and vilified whenever possible by the boys. 

The Kliq consisted of five wrestlers: Kevin Nash – a near seven-footer from Michigan who had wrestled under the name Vinnie Vegas when he was at WCW and now worked as Diesel; Shawn had brought him over to be his story-line bodyguard, and it seemed to have carried over to real-life. Scott Hall, a big, broad, hairy man who made all the ladies swoon. He wrestled as Razor Ramone – a Scarface rip-off, but a clever one that was popular with the fans. Sean Waltman, the 1-2-3 Kid who hadn’t been wrestling very long with the company but was already considered by many to be the barometer for who was a good wrestler or not. Hunter Hearst-Helmsly, the big, blond, body-building kid from New Hampshire who’d also come over from WCW. And lastly, the one Bret disliked the most…Shawn Michaels.

Though three out of five members towered over most heads in the bar, Mark and Bret’s gaze had no trouble singling out the short, sassy Texan with the heart-breaker face and a busty brunette on his arm. The Canadian’s eyes narrowed.

“He’s got all his plumes out tonight.” Bret said with scorn, and was pleased to see his friend’s mouth turn down at the corners in like-minded disapproval.  
“I don’t trust him.” Mark said.  
“I don’t blame ya – I don’t either.” Bret admitted with a quirk of his lips, satisfied the conversation was going in the direction he wanted – Slanderville.  
“He’s an amazin’ performer.” Mark said, trying to at least say something good to balance out his harsh critique. “He definitely draws a crowd.”  
Bret rolled his eyes. “How can he not? I’d stop to look if someone was takin’ off his clothes in the middle of the street too.”  
“He’s so damn good, but he just doesn’t care!” Mark sighed and took a long swallow of beer. “I wish he did, I wish they all did. They can do so much for us all, but they…”  
“They just bury us.”  
“Exactly.”

Before Bret could expand on Shawn and the Kliq’s failings they heard a glass shatter and an angry curse, but not directed at the lost drink; the bar went silent for a split second before the heated voices started up again. Mark and Bret turned to see a rough man with a mullet getting in Shawn’s face.

“You think you can come in and just steal my girl!” He roared.  
“Hey! I didn’t steal yer girl, she came on her own.” Shawn countered, holding up his hands. Kevin, and Scott stood on either side of their smaller friend – Hunter and Waltman edged behind the mullet-man, trapping him in and preventing any of his friends from getting close. The busty brunette, before so flirty and unattached, had scampered off fast to avoid her part of the blame.

“Listen, pal,” Kevin said taking a threatening step forward. “He didn’t know she was with you, and she wasn’t acting like she had a man, so you should just drop it and move on before we do something you’ll regret.”  
Scott glared at the rough-neck – menacing, fists clenching, thirsty for a fight. The jilted man’s friends started to take a step forward, but Waltman and Hunter took a step up and stared them down. Though both young, Hunter was almost as broad as Scott; at six-four he was quite a bit taller than the two men, and had a glare that could cut glass. And though Waltman was the smallest and slightest of the group – thin enough that a good breeze could have blown him down, the look in his eyes was just as dangerous as Scott’s – it gave the advancing men pause. 

“Chicken-shit!” The mullet-head cried. “If you didn’t have your friends you wouldn’t be so…”  
“Oh yeah?” Shawn said, pushing out from between Kevin and Scott. “Wanna put that to the test?”  
“God-fucking-damn-it.” Mark hissed and his chair scraped loud on the floor as he stood and made for the commotion – wanting to give the members of the Kliq a piece of his mind, but before he could get close he found his path blocked by Hunter.

The young man fixed his eyes on the older man – his gaze warning the Texan to turn around; Mark glared back down at the shorter man. “Out’a my way.” He growled, and started to stride past, but the young bodybuilder stepped in front of him so he couldn’t get by.  
“You deaf? I said get the fuck out’a the way!” Mark snapped, but Hunter didn’t move.  
“Please, go sit back down, Taker;” The young man said in a calm voice. “We’ve got this under control.” Scott had slipped in and taken Hunter’s place – the mullet-head took one look at Mark, recognized him, and decided no chick was worth it. He and his buddies got out of the way quick. But Mark wasn’t done with Hunter and his group.  
“My ass you’ve got this. You think you boys can just waltz into any joint an’ cause a ruckus?”  
“No,” Hunter said, still keeping his voice low. “But there’s nothing to worry about - we’re taking care of it now.”  
“Like hell…”  
“I swear, we’re going to leave right now – you won’t have to worry…”  
“With the shit you cocksuckers pull, fuck, we all gotta worry; otherwise we’ll all be handed pink-slips come next taping.”  
The young man made no reply, and Mark – riled by his and Bret’s short conversation and sense of tact lost due to the alcohol, he tore into the young man.

“Yer a bunch’a selfish ladder-climbers with no respect fer anyone in this business; always sucking up to the top men while the rest of the boys are tryin’ t’get by; you don’t help anyone but yerselves and don’t let anyone else have their shot! You like bein’ the most hated guys in the business? You think all this is a joke? This is real-life! Start actin’ like it matters!”

Cheers came from the other wrestlers around the bar who were close enough to hear Mark’s rant. The men of the Kliq, tipsy but unconcerned with the opinions of their peers, shook their heads with sneers and flipped the patrons off. Hunter, however, being sober, did not share their indifferent attitude.

A tired and angry look came over him – the expression of a very put-upon man; in a quiet but serious voice that would hold no argument he said to the tall veteran:  
“We’re doing nothing but what everyone else in this business does to get ahead, and I guarantee all the guys in this bar would do the same if they’d only thought of it first. As far as I’m concerned, you can kiss our asses if you don’t like it. Now back off.”  
Mark was knocked for six at the kid’s balls – in all his time in the WWF, even the WCW, he’d never been spoken to like this by a greenhorn, and it didn’t sit well with him. He glowered down at the kid.  
“Y’might be in with Vince an’ them, but y’all ain’t shit.” He said acidly. “Not with the boys, not with anyone.”

Hunter stood his ground, unwavering – Mark turned away in disgust –he wasn’t going to wait for the shit-heads to leave, the night was botched as far as he was concerned. As he exited the bar with Bret, the applause of his fellows following him out, he didn’t hear the younger man let out a trembling breath, nor did he see the shake in Hunter’s sweaty hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, The Undertaker, Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels, Kevin Nash, Scott Hall, Sean Waltman.
> 
> Undertaker confiding to Bret Hart that he did not trust Shawn Michaels is true as far as I could tell in my research, but then again I did read it out of Bret Hart's autobiography, and I'm starting to wonder just how much I can trust his version of anything.
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


	3. The Long Hard Road to WrestleMania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn the origins of WrestleMania, and listen in on the frets and jokes of the stable, the Kliq.

Vincent Kennedy McMahon was a man of vision.

Growing up in a trailer in Arkansas with an abusive mother and violent step-father, imagining a life better than the one he had was only natural, but so few have the drive to bring their golden fantasy to life. As tortured as the young man was, he refused to accept his lot in life, and when he was seventeen he got into contact with his father, McMahon Sr. – owner and promoter of WWWF, and begged to be let into the wrestling business. 

Vince’s’ father refused, and did everything to keep his son out of the business, but Vince would not be turned away, and did everything he could to get in. He badgered his father whenever he could, calling him up or seeing him in person and giving list upon list of reasons why he should be a part of the wrestling business, and his father gave him list upon list of reasons as to why he should be kept away from it.

But Vince was dogged, and at last his father relented, but made it a point to keep his son at a distance – sending him off to work for a promoter of his in an outlying, backwater sect – figuring Vince couldn’t get into much trouble down there, and it was sure to teach his son the hard way that the wrestling business wasn’t as glamorous as the boy thought.

His plan backfired, however, and Vince found he loved the business even more once he learned the inner-workings, but there was one thing about it that did bother him. It wasn’t long after he arrived that young Vince discovered the promoter he worked for, as well as numerous others who worked under his father, were pocketing a share of the money they made for themselves – he immediately contacted his father about it, but the reaction was not what young Vince expected. McMahon Sr. knew about his promoters lining their pockets with his money, but he figured as long as they weren’t skimming too much off the top he had nothing to worry about. 

That wasn’t good enough for Vince; he called his father back and said he wanted to buy the promotion.  
“If you can raise the money, it’s yours.” Said McMahon Sr. – the promotion cost just over a million dollars, and he knew his son would never be able to raise that kind of money.  
But McMahon Sr. didn’t know his son very well.

Vince worked like a dog to raise the money needed; he scratched up as much money as he could from his own pocket and once that was drained he took out loans and borrowed from fellow promoters, and in the end he’d raised one million dollars and bought the promotion from his father.

It was at that point McMahon Sr. realized the grit and passion that was in his son and at last took him seriously when he said he wanted to be involved in the business. ‘He can survive it.’ Eventually Senior moved Vince back up to the northeast and took Vince around to the shows he was putting on; America was reaching the point where there was now a television in every home and wrestling was becoming more wide-spread than ever. Characters were becoming bigger too – Andre the Giant was already a legend for his size alone, and Hulk Hogan was well on his way to becoming a star unlike the world had never seen. 

After the death of McMahon Sr., young Vince McMahon took over for his father and absorbed the various territories around the nation, buying them out and joining them all into the re-named WWF. This angered and depressed the numerous promoters and very much worried the regional wrestlers who had been the champions in their own territories. These wrestlers now found themselves competing against a whole nation of fighters all vying for the top position that had once been theirs. Not only that, but also having to learn how to work crowds from different parts of the country was a whole new skill that was alien to many of them; the shock of realizing what drove a crowd wild in one part of the country would only bring the sound of crickets in another was a blow to the egos of many wrestlers. But if they were good, and if they picked up on the regional psychology fast enough, they survived the big transition; those that didn’t became lost in the mix, and were only remembered by the die-hard fans of that bygone era. 

After a few years there were only three or four privately-owned promotions left in North America, two of the most prominent being WCCW, owned and operated by the Von Erich’s, and Stampede Wrestling owned and operated by Stu Hart. While Vince wasn’t too concerned with their effect on his business, he knew he had to create something new to stay fresh and on top. It was then he conceived of an idea; a massive event, a series of wrestling matches televised on private airwaves, shown in movie-theaters, closed-circuit television that could be purchased by families across the nation – it would be like the Superbowl for wrestling fans. It would be called: WrestleMania.

It was an ambitious idea, and had it failed it would have ruined him, but Fortune smiled upon young Vince. WrestleMania succeeded despite all odds and Vincent Kennedy McMahon changed the face of wrestling as the world knew it. 

The first WrestleMania was held in 1985 in Madison Square Garden, and to the shock of everyone it broke both televised viewing and public attendance records; every year since, WrestleMania has been breaking attendance records set by football, basketball, baseball, and soccer games all over the world, and remains one of the highest viewed sports shows to this day, beating out the Superbowl every year in world-wide viewership.

This year, WrestleMania XII, would take place in Anaheim California at the Arrowhead Pond and this year had a good set of matches going for it. For the Kliq it was a special year – three out of four of them would be featured in WrestleMania.

This year would feature Shawn Michaels in the main event battling Bret Hart for the World Wrestling Federation Championship in an hour-long bout, the WWF’s very first Iron Man match.

Kevin had a match at this years’ WrestleMania as well, facing the Undertaker. This was a big honor for any wrestler; by this time, Taker had established his undefeated streak, eleven-and-oh, and though Taker was slated to win this one and up his streak to twelve it was the prestige of being in the ring with such a man and having your moment in the sun that was the real prize. Even if you lost you would still be part of the list of men who challenged the Undertaker – though you failed you would become part of history, and who wouldn’t want that? 

But the match that was on their minds at the moment was the fight their now-youngest member was going to have; this was Hunter’s first WrestleMania, and the veterans in the van couldn’t stop giving him advice and kept prodding him every so many miles to know how he was feeling.

“Only a-hundred miles left to go, guys – last leg of the trip.” Kevin announced as they passed the large green and white sign; he glanced up into the rear-view mirror and winked at Hunter when he caught his eye. “You excited, kid?”  
“Course he’s excited!” Scott said from his seat in the back, and reached forward, grabbing Hunter by the shoulders and shaking him a little. “This is gonna be so heart-warming, Hunt, watching you pop your cherry.” Hunter laughed and tried to bat the bigger man away, but Scott wrapped his arms around the chair and pinned him to the seat.

“Scott,” said Kevin. “If it were any of us wrestling him it’d be heart-warming, but it’s gonna be the Ultimate Warrior who does the popping.”  
“An’ I’m sorry yer gettin’ the rawest deal in the van, Hunt.” Shawn said.  
“It’s no so bad,” Hunter insisted, struggling to get out of Scott’s grip. “I’m getting my WrestleMania shot, so what do I care?”

The set-up for this match had been pretty stressful for Hunter, not just because it was his first bout at WrestleMania, but also because he’d had to do all the promoting for the match itself on his own. For some reason that had yet to be explained, the Ultimate Warrior hadn’t been showing up to do the promos with him – a necessity if they wanted to make this seem like a believable feud and a satisfying culmination. Warrior was already over as a good guy (a babyface) since Hunter was working as a heel (a bad guy), the Connecticut Blueblood character he played lent itself to audience distaste, even though Hunter was really from New Hampshire and was raised in the middle-class. 

It was daunting for the young man to do such big-time promoting by himself – especially since this was the match that would bring Warrior back into the WWF after a three and a half year hiatus; he could and would do it, but he wished the Ultimate Warrior would at least help out – it was his come-back story after all.  
But he tried not to fret, and got the nausea-inducing topic off of himself as he pried Scott’s hands away.  
“How about you, Shawn?” He asked. “Did you and Bret ever figure out what you’re going to do for an hour?”  
“Sort of; Bret figured it’d be best if I come up with the first thirty minutes and he come up with the other.”  
“Sounds like a good plan.” Hunter said.  
“Will he even be able to fill his time?” Scott asked. Normally the quiet one on road-trips, Scott had the uncanny ability to always hit the nail on the head the rare moments he opened his mouth, and now was no exception. They had all been worried about Bret being able to wrestle for an hour and keep it believable – neither Kevin nor Scott had much confidence that he could, and it was something Shawn had been troubling over since he’d gotten the confirmation.

While Bret was a good technical wrestler – of this there was no doubt amongst any of them, he wasn’t very creative in the ring, which was surprising, him being the son of Stu Hart and all. He had a routine in the ring, and he refused to go outside of it – that was frustrating for any wrestler and wearisome for the audience who had paid good money for their tickets; a boring or predictable match was suicide. Kevin had wrestled him once, and it hadn’t gone well; they hadn’t gotten along at all to start with, and because Kevin was doing Bret a favor in passing the title on to him, Bret should have allowed for creative changes, but he hadn’t, and Kevin had been sore about it ever since.

“He was the one who brought up doing new maneuvers,” Shawn said. “So I think we’ll be fine.” He looked out the window, watching the scenery drift by. “I hope so anyway,” the small Texan said, almost to himself. “I don’t wanna be flipping around to his leg-sweeps for a half-hour.”

“Why Shawn,” asked Kevin, playing the oblivious Bret-worshiper. “Whatever do you mean? Bret Hart is the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be!”  
“Yeah right,” sneered Scott. “Because who wants to see something different? Who wants to see new moves?”  
“Are you saying…” Kevin said, his voice dripping with sarcastic shock. “That Bret Hart always uses the same set of moves?”  
“Russian leg-sweep!” Cried Shawn.  
“Backbreaker!” Answered Hunter.  
“Elbow-drop!” Yelled Scott.  
“And…” Prompted Kevin.  
“THE SHARPSHOOTER!!” They cried in unison, laughing hard as they drove on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Vincent McMahon Sr. and Vincent Kennedy McMahon (both in retrospect) , Bret Hart, the Undertaker, Triple H, Shawn Michaels, Kevin Nash, Scott Hall.
> 
> WrestleMania XII really did feature three out of four members of the Kliq (I say four because by this time Sean Walman a.k.a The 1-2-3 Kid had made the jump to WCW) And even though Razor Ramone (Scott Hall) was on the big poster for WMXII he was not on the card.  
> WMXII really was Hunter's (Triple H's) first WrestleMania and according to the documentary 'The Self Destruction of the Ultimate Warrior' Ultimate Warrior really didn't help out at all with the promos, but no reason was given as to why, so Hunter had to handle all the promos himself. While Hunter said in his interview on the movie that it was good training for him, you can tell that incident hurt his opinion of Warrior as a professional though he didn't say anything outright bad about him. But kudos to Hunter for carrying all that responsibility so well while he was a rookie.
> 
> I researched Vince McMahon at the same time as I did WrestleMania, and he is perhaps one of the most fascinating and polarized men out there; all I read about him just makes me respect him all the more - brought up in a trailer-park, physically abused by his stepfather, and (if the interview in Playboy is to be believed') sexually abused by his mother.  
> That's messed up.  
> But all he overcame to create this mulit-million dollar entertainment corporation that is shown/performed in all 50 states and around the globe, sends wrestlers to the Middle East to entertain the troops, works closely with the Make A Wish Foundation, Be A Star (campaign against bullying) and now reaching into the movie industry (and not doing too bad a job with what they've been putting out)  
> That's incredible, make no mistake.
> 
> Mr. McMahon is the man!
> 
>  
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


	4. WrestleMania XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn the ins-and-outs of setting up a wrestling story-line and match, and Hunter has his first WrestleMania match. And his second confrontation with the Undertaker.

To many, both in the audience and especially in the locker-room, the big match this year was the Iron Man match. The real-life tension between Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels was starting to become more noticeable – so much so that it was becoming a topic of debate amongst smarks; though for the sake of peace in the locker-room they were able to put their differences behind them, for the most part, and act like professionals. For this match to work at all it was imperative that they do so. 

The build-up to this fight – to any fight in the WWF, was very important; long hours were spent planning the story and booking matches. Such build-up could span close to a year, and if the narrative was well-crafted it would create enough drama to get the fans interested not only follow the story but to entice them to buy tickets for the live matches. This fight was no different, and it all began with a bar-fight one night in mid-October.

Shawn had been out drinking with Kid and Davey-Boy Smith – a wrestler from England who was better known as the British Bulldog. Women and men were hanging all over them, flirting and teasing, wanting the bragging rights that came from sleeping with a celebrity; this didn’t go over well with the men in the bar. Shawn left the bar early to go sit in the car to sober up a little and wait until his drinking companions were done, but he never made it.

A group of marines followed him out and gave him a violent beat-down in the parking lot. He blacked out before it got bad, and when he woke up he found himself in a hospital bed. When he asked Kid and Davey-Boy what happened and where they were during the fight they wouldn’t give him a straight answer; Kevin and Scott, who saw Shawn as their little brother, were outraged with Kid and Davey and ripped them a new one. 

There was no hiding the bar-fight form the press; perhaps if it hadn’t been marines it wouldn’t have been so bad, but as the situation stood no one would dare blame the marines or even say a slighting word against them, especially not Vince as he supported the military. He did, however, see possibility in this unfortunate turn of events, and in his never-say-die attitude he said, “Let’s turn a negative into a positive.” And soon he had an angle that would confound the fans and blur the line where fantasy ended and reality began. 

In Richmond Virginia, Shawn wrestled Bret Hart’s youngest brother, Owen Hart, and the key moment came when Owen kicked him in the back of the head – a move called an enziguri; at first, Shawn strutted around like the kick had been nothing, but then he seemed to grow dizzy, and to the shock of everyone in the building, he collapsed in the middle of the ring. The show went to dead air, and the commentators, Jim Ross and Jerry ‘the King’ Lawler, took off their headsets and watched in astonishment as EMT’s rushed to the ring, trying to wake Shawn up.

No one in the audience knew what was going on, only the people who needed to know, which was limited to Vince, Owen, Shawn, J.R., Lawler, and Hunter, knew that this was a work – it was all part of the show. The EMT’s, having no cause to believe that this was anything other than an emergency, did a fantastic job and rushed Shawn to the hospital; Hunter followed them, being the concerned friend, but in on it the entire time. They all played the whole thing so close to the hilt that Shawn even had to sign a release form before they’d let him leave the hospital.

When Shawn came back after a two month leave he was turned babyface and won the following Royal Rumble; this gave him a chance at the World Wrestling Federation Championship title at WrestleMania XII. Bret was the title holder, having won it off of Kevin the previous fall; the Canadian only held it for a few months – a fact that he was unhappy about, but it could be argued that Vince had planned to make Shawn the Champion since before Bret won the title, and had been building up the right opponent for him to give the best show possible to the people.

The problem was, like many events that concerned one or more members of the Kliq, this years’ WrestleMania was met with a lot of angry grumblings from the guys in the locker-room. The big complaint this time was that Diesel hadn’t earned this WrestleMania match – the over-all consensus was he was being put over more than was his due because he was part of the Kliq and Shawn was pulling hard for his friend, and since it was common knowledge amongst the locker-room gossips that Shawn had the ear of Vince McMahon, well…anything Shawn wanted, Shawn got.

But did this affect the Kliq in any way? To the anger of the other wrestlers the answer seemed to be a resounding ‘no’. In fact, the much-hated group seemed to thrive on the dislike of their peers, and if you would ask them if such a claim was true they would say it was. The hatred they felt burning into the backs of their heads as they entered the locker-room drove them to do better and better in the ring, not just to prove how good they were as performers, but also to see the sickened, twisting scowls on the other wrestlers faces when they realized they could say all they wanted to about the four men clawing their way to the top of the heap without a look back, but knowing and hating that each member of the Kliq had the talent and the skill to back their boasts up. They weren’t just talking out of their asses – they were damn good at their job, and they loved how it pissed everyone off.

Vince had a saying, “The guys who do well in this business are also the smartest.” The Kliq, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fit that description to a ‘T’. 

* * * 

The cheers of the crowed became distant the further into the bowels of the arena he went, but he could barely hear them at all over the grumblings in his own head. He thought he had prepared himself for the worst, but he hadn’t expected a match this rotten.

There was never much time before a match to go over what was going to happen – the most that was ever planned was the outcome, and even then a decision like that could wait until a few minutes before they went out. In the old days there were times the wrestlers found out about the title-drop when they were already in the ring and right in the middle of a match. The most time any of the wrestlers had to sit down and plan out what they were going to do was five minutes at the most, and five minutes to plan out a fight that could run anywhere from two to twenty minutes wasn’t a lot of time. Due to this lack of prep-time, most matches were called in the ring – the men would communicate with each other as they fought, listening to the crowd and telling their story on the fly. Sometimes, if the wrestlers knew each other very well, they could call a whole match in the ring without saying anything. Shawn and Hunter were this way – many times there was not a word said between them before or during, and they’d go on to have some of the most memorable confrontations in history. 

As well as not having much time to plan, a million and one things could happen at any given moment during a match: a slip, an ill-timed fall, even fans jumping the divider and running into the ring for their fifteen minutes of fame. This was perhaps one of the most dangerous occurrences for the wrestlers and the fan themselves, not just because it threw the timing of the wrestlers off as they were doing dangerous maneuvers, but sometimes in their outrage they turned on the obnoxious fan and beat the shit out of them for the harm they could have caused. 

There was even equipment failure: during a tag-team match in Fort Wayne between the Hart Foundation: Bret Hart, Jim Neidhart, and the Midnight Rockers: Shawn Michaels and Marty Jannetty, the top rope broke off and ruined the match for everyone involved. It was unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done. 

A thousand and one things could go wrong at any moment, but even if everything goes right a terrible match can still be had for a thousand and one reasons more; Hunter knew this, but that didn’t lessen the blow when they did occur. He stormed back into the locker-room where his friends were waiting for him; the match with Ultimate Warrior had gone off without a hitch, but in his mind it was one of the worst matches he’d ever had. Short, boring, and just rotten all around, and at WrestleMania! He was so embarrassed.

That no-sell Pedigree? Warrior lying flat on his face the minute he hit the mat and then hopping right back up like nothing had happened? It was supposed to make Warrior look strong, and many dyed-in-the-wool Warrior fans would argue to the death that it did, but the Kliq thought it made both Warrior and Hunter look stupid. His fans could argue in his favor until the cows came home, but when it came down to it, the Kliq agreed that the no-selling should be left to the Undertaker, and to him alone. 

After the match he’d shook Warrior’s hand and said, “Thank you for the match and the house.” Warrior was the star, he was the one who sold the tickets and put butts in the seats, not Hunter, so it was only right and respectful for him to say ‘thank you’ to the man who gave him exposure. Warrior had shaken his hand, grunted without looking at him, and left; Hunter tried not to feel put-out about it, but he would have liked a little feed-back. Most of the guys were good about that, especially Bret; he and the other wrestlers that cared about the business as a whole would take a moment to give you a critique and tell you what you needed to improve upon, but also let you know what you did that was good and should keep doing. Warrior just walked off without a word.  
Hunter sighed – his first WrestleMania was already less than memorable. 

He felt a slap on his shoulder as Scott and Shawn trotted up behind him.  
“Don’t look so down, Hunt,” Scott said, tussling his hair.  
“Yeah, you did good!” Added Shawn, giving him a one-armed hug.  
“Thanks.” Hunter said, unable to keep the dissatisfaction out of his voice.  
Scott put an arm around his neck. “You were workin’ without tools, buddy.” He consoled, and Shawn nodded in agreement, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “You did what you were asked without complainin’, an’ you gave it yer all t’boot– that’s all you can do sometimes.”  
“I guess.” Hunter said with a sigh.  
“Come on,” said Scott. “Let’s go see if we can find a t.v. and watch Kevin, he’ll be on soon.”  
They trotted a little faster towards the back, and as they went, Shawn gave his young friend a nudge and a smile. “Cheer up, Hunt. There’ll be more WrestleMania’s, just you wait – you’ll get yer headliner sooner than you think.”  
Hunter smiled back at his small friend – he could always trust Shawn to brighten up his dark moods.

At last they found one of the numerous small televisions that were set up in the back for the wrestlers; each TV had the current matches displayed on their screens, the sound on low so it wasn’t distracting to the men and women who were getting ready for their respective bouts. They were glad to find one unoccupied and stood around the boob-tube to watch Kevin, in his Diesel persona, make his way to the ring to try and take down the ‘Taker.

It was turning out to be a pretty interesting match; Diesel had put Taker down once, and had gestured in impatience for him to get back up – knowing his opponents’ eerie trick of sitting back up like Dracula when his opponent’s back was turned. Diesel was making it clear that he wasn’t intimidated by the Deadman, and the crowed seemed to really enjoy his cocky attitude – probably because they were eager to see him get beaten back down. As much as the fans liked Diesel, deep down they didn’t want Undertaker’s streak to end, not for a long time.

In the ring, Diesel wrapped Undertaker in a bear-hug; body to body he worked to crush Taker’s rib-cage – squeezing the air out of him; back in the locker-room the Kliq watched with interest. The tall Texan’s face was hidden behind the Northerner’s head and thanks to the stationary camera angle all they could see was the long muscled body clad in black and long hair the color of artery blood – a rich black-red.  
Hunter started to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Shawn asked. His young companion pointed at the screen.  
“I just had the thought it’s like watching the sexy trucker fighting his sexy Goth girlfriend.”  
Shawn looked back at the screen. “Hot?” The small wrestler tilted his head and squinted. “I guess…if that’s yer thing.”  
“Oh come on, he’s _kinda_ sexy.” Hunter said, defending his statement; “Like a male Morticia Addams, and you can’t look me in the eye and say neither of you wouldn’t have done her.” With a roguish and crooked smile, Scott put an arm around the blonds’ shoulder and pulled him into his hairy chest – slipping easily into his Razor Ramone persona with his Scarface-inspired accent.  
“Why you never tell me you like the tall, dark, an’ mysterious types, eh hombre? I could’a given you all da sexies you ever want or need – I make your _punta_ all creamy, _papi!_ ” He ground his hips into Hunter’s and the bodybuilder slapped him away with a laugh. “Cut it out! You’re just looking to de-flower me!” Hunter cried – Shawn swatted at his young friend’s half-tail playfully. “Hunt, whatever de-flowering there was to be done was taken care of ages ago in WCW. Probably by Bischoff.”  
“Hey!”  
“Slipped you a little omething’-somethin’ between matches, right?” Scott teased.  
“Shut up, man! No one’s supposed to know about that! And why the hell are you guys so interested in the state of my virginity lately anyway?!”  
The three of them busted up.

While they laughed the two wrestlers they had been watching finished the match with Undertaker as the victor; Taker lurched back to Gorilla with Diesel limping behind, once through the curtain they shook hands and went backstage where the members of the Kliq waited for their friend; Taker was greeted with the sight of the three ass-wipes chuckling. Diesel went to join them – Shawn and Scott glanced over at Taker and snickered louder.

He knew he should just continue on to his dressing room, but the juvenile chuckling dug deep into his brain like nails on a chalkboard; he glared over at them, but the giggling didn’t stop, and none of the members who were in on the joke would look at him; the Kliq shook with laughter and went off to congratulate their friend on a good match. Hunter hung back though. 

Mark glowered at the kid, but Hunter wouldn’t allow himself to be intimidated, not after the cruddy match he just had; he looked the big man up and down then held his annoyed gaze.  
“They weren’t laughing at you.” He said.  
“I don’t give a fuck if they were, that’s not what this is about, kid. It’s about respect, and none of you have it.”  
“We have it,” Hunter countered. “But none of you want to believe we do, or want it if we gave it. So why should we bother?”  
“So you all just wanna stay isolated? Y’know, one day yer boys ain’t gonna be around t’have yer back – when that day comes yer gonna find this place to be very lonely an’ unpleasant.”

The kid scowled back up at the big Texan. “Even without them I could handle this place because I’m not scared of the boys, of Bret, and I’m definitely not scared of you; I can take whatever you can dish out, and I’ll spit it right back at you.”  
Without waiting for Mark to reply, Hunter turned on his heel – long blond hair whipping around him like a stallion’s tail, and disappeared to join his friends.  
 _‘Arrogant little cus.’_ Mark thought, and he went to go change and prep for a much-needed night on the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, Scott Hall, Kevin Nash, Ultimate Warrior.
> 
> I hope this flows well - I'm doing this without the help of an editor, so I just cross my fingers and hope I did well.
> 
> The set-up for the match in Virginia happened just like that - unintentional bar-fight and all, and only the people mentioned in the story knew about it.  
> The stories of matches going wrong and fans running into the ring are true - it's shocking to see just how desperate people are to get their three seconds of fame, or how invested in a character they get.
> 
> The feelings in the locker-room against the Kliq really were great dislike, and in my research I've gotten a feel for how isolated they made themselves. They may not have been well-liked but I've not heard of stronger or truer friendships in the WWE before or since.
> 
> The ending to the WM match happened as I wrote it, but I had to fabricate what happened afterward in the locker-room because I have no idea what really went on. And the Kevin Nash/Undertaker match afterward was pretty decent and though I didn't go into much detail what I did write is what happened in the match, and what I thought Undertaker looked like in that one moment ^_^  
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


	5. The Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After WrestleMania XII, everything changes.

Shawn’s match was spectacular, as the members of the Kliq knew it would be.

It had gone into overtime – a creative decision by Shawn that Bret hadn’t been so keen on, but the audience ate it up, so he had no complaints in the end. This was also the fulfillment of Shawn’s boyhood dream – winning the WWF Championship title by proving himself in an Iron Man match, and earning with it the confidence of the company and the confirmation from the people up top that they believed, out of all the wrestlers in the company, he was the best.

Before they went out to wrestle, Bret pulled Shawn aside and reminded him that he was doing Shawn a favor – it was something every veteran did, letting the young bucks know that it was by good grace they were where they were because the title-holders weren’t causing a fuss. It could have gone the other way with surprising ease. Shawn could tell Bret wasn’t too happy, but he wasn’t surprised and didn’t blame him in the least – he imagined he wouldn’t be too happy about dropping the title when his time came to do so. Bret, however, did not stay around after the match to congratulate Shawn on his new position as Champion; he showered, changed, and went right to his car and left without a word to anyone. He would state later that he had to go straight to filming for the television show ‘Lonesome Dove’ but many knew he hadn’t been too happy to drop the belt in the first place, thinking it was a pre-mature honor for someone like Shawn.

Despite that, things seemed to be going well for Shawn Michaels; the same couldn’t be said, however, for Scott Hall.

Life in the WWF wasn’t bad for Scott, and his character, Razor Ramone was still well-received, but it was becoming clear to him that he’d gone as far as he could go with the company. His contract was up and it was time to move on; he wanted to stay because all of his friends were at the WWF, but he wanted a monetary guarantee that Vince just couldn’t give him and Eric Bishoff, the boss at WCW, could. So he called Bishoff up and discussed making the jump; soon a contract was drawn up and Scott was all set. He told Kevin how much he would be earning with the guarantee WCW would be giving him, and the big Northerner was impressed – even more-so when Scott went on to tell him he’d only be working three hundred and five days a year to WWF’s three hundred and twenty-plus. A small difference to people with normal jobs, but to wrestlers who were on the road every day and fighting every night, it was huge.

After talking, Kevin started wondering if he should do the same; he and Scott were good friends, and he didn’t like the idea of Scott going down to WCW by himself. Kid was there, yes, but kid wasn’t a defender like Kevin was; Kevin looked after the boys in the Kliq, he was a protective big brother at heart, and he knew how the boys in the locker-room could be to new arrivals, and since Scott was from their rival company…

In the end, Scott saved his big friend the trouble and asked Kevin to come with him down to WCW, but still the big man had a hard time deciding.  
“Give me a bit to think on it.” Was all he could say; he had a big match with the Undertaker and Bret Hart coming up, and he was eager for the chance to work with them again, even if he and Bret didn’t mesh creatively or personally.

The show was an ‘In Your House’, taped in Louisville, Kentucky; the plan was that Nash would get pulled under the ring by Taker, like he was being dragged down to Hell, or down into Undertaker’s lair. Nash was thrilled with the idea – it would look incredible to both the live audience and the fans watching at home, and the best part was the fans wouldn’t see it coming. He was ready and willing, but there was a problem: Bret was refusing to take the Powerbomb.

He wouldn’t budge on the issue; he rejected the idea, saying it would make him look weak to be beaten like that. Kevin couldn’t believe it; if the Powerbomb ruined the flow of the match or it was altogether unnecessary then he’d understand Bret’s reasoning, but throwing out the whole thing because it made him look weak? Jesus! He had to be kidding!

He tried to break down the necessity for the Powerbomb, reason with Bret as to why that spot was needed and why scratching it out of the match would hurt the story-line build-up; he did everything but draw a picture for the Canadian, but Bret wouldn’t move on his opinion. Kevin must have spent a good twenty-five minutes trying to convince him and trying hard to keep his own rising temperature in check, but – to his great surprise, it wasn’t him who lost him temper first. 

The Undertaker was in the room with them as they all needed to participate creatively for this match, and Mark was always so calm and collected – nothing ever seemed to get to him, until today that is. The big Texan had been listening in silence to Bret and Kevin going back and forth about the Powerbomb and couldn’t stand it anymore. He jumped out of his chair and hollered at Bret.  
“MOTHERFUCKER, NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT _YOU!_ ”  
The two men stared in shock at the Undertaker – they’d almost forgotten he was there. Mark stabbed a finger at Bret.  
“This helps make _our_ fuckin’ match mean more at ‘Mania, makes our match mean something more than just another fight the fans have to get through.”

That, in Kevin’s opinion, would have been enough to make anyone change their mind – he knew if he was in Bret’s place and Taker was bellowing at him, he’d for sure change his mind faster than you could blink. But even with Mark against him, to Kevin’s astonishment, Bret still hemmed and hawed and complained that the Hitman wouldn’t look strong. Mark threw his hands up in the air. “Then let’s fucking take it to Vince!” He snapped. Bret agreed, and the two left the room to find the boss; Kevin wanted to come, but he had to shoot a promo and the meeting between the three of them had already gone on longer than he’d planned. As he ran down the hall to the taping, he felt confidant that the match would go the way he and the Undertaker had plotted out; if Bret was going to give into anyone it would be the combined efforts of his friend and his boss.

* * *

 _“He’s not going to take the Powerbomb.”_  
Kevin’s hand tightened around the phone he held. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”  
 _“No,”_ said Vince on the other line. _“I’m sorry, but he’s not going to take it.”_  
Kevin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his temper in check. He couldn’t believe it. “Okay, fine.” He said, keeping most of the annoyance out of his voice, but unable to do anything about the disappointment. Vince apologized again – Kevin was glad to hear in his bosses’ voice that at least he felt bad about it, but was still hurt at the way his ideas were discarded and that Bret was being given what he wanted even though the Undertaker himself knew it was the wrong thing.

He hung up, vaguely wondering what in the office had gone down that even Mark was shot down; walking through the halls of the arena toward the locker-room his thoughts wandered to how he had been treated since he got here. Being part of the Kliq he didn’t have many friends outside of it – he and Mark got along pretty well at least, and since he, himself, was such a big guy anyway he didn’t get much rub from anyone, not to his face at least.

What irked him was how Bret seemed to get away with a lot of the same shit the Kliq was accused of and somehow still have the whole of the locker-room behind him. Not only that, but he was always bitching about not being paid enough, which was bull-shit; when Kevin had been the WWF Champion Bret still got paid more than he did. Hell, one of the reasons everyone wanted to be and stay Champion was the pay-raise, but Bret bitched about money all the time, and Kevin guessed it was reasonable since he was one of the top three draws – the other two being Shawn and Taker, but for crying out loud, he wasn’t worth that much.

He made it to the locker-room and passed by the younger guys, abstaining from the hand-shakes and the praise on their matches. What did he care now?  
Scott was in the shower – his contract was up now, all that was left was to clean up and go; Kevin stripped, walked in beside him, took his shampoo and started washing his hair with it. After a while Kevin said softly,  
“Tell Bishoff I’m in.”

* * *

The next day all the locker-room was abuzz about Scott and Kevin’s deal and the jump they were to make; not too many people were upset to hear they were going. Hunter and Shawn were the ones who were saddened most. Shawn especially couldn’t help but feel upset that they were leaving; Nash tried to ease the news by saying that he wouldn’t be leaving if he wasn’t sure Shawn could handle the WWF by himself, and he even made the joke that since he and Scott would be in WCW and Shawn and Hunter were still in the WWF they were expanding rather than separating and both pairs would be on top in their respective companies. Scott reminded Shawn what the veteran wrestler Chief Jay Strongbow had said to the three of them all those years ago, “In this business you can make friends, or you can make money.” Scott quoted; he looked at Kevin, Shawn, and Hunter. “I’ve got friends,” he said. “I’d like to make some money now.” 

Shawn understood their reasons for wanting to leave, and Nash’s efforts to cheer him up brought a smile to his face, but deep down, Shawn felt hurt and abandoned.  
Hunter was sad his friends were leaving as well, but understood it and handled it better than Shawn – he was more of a realist than Shawn, and knew that this business was all about opportunity and taking it when it came, and if it getting to the top meant jumping to the opposing company, he couldn’t blame them for doing so.  
But he would miss them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Kevin Nash, Scott Hall, Bret Hart The Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, Triple H
> 
> Pretty much everything I wrote here happened. Bret leaving right after the Iron Man match without a word (same with the speculation as to why he left and the reason he eventually gave) to Scott's decision to leave the WWF right down to how and where he and Kevin came to the agreement. Even the bit about the Undertaker yelling at Bret is true.
> 
> The characters don't belong to me. I'm making no money off of this.


	6. The Curtain-Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes, and the aftermath of a proclamation of friendship.

Madison Square Garden is the undisputed home of the WWF; it was where all the major championships for the North East had been held when it had been split up into territories. Back then, Bruno Sammartino had been the hero of New York City – it having an abundant population of Italian-Americans, and Sammartino had been their Superman. While not the best wrestler in history, not even in the top twenty for most people’s lists, he was a man who drew the biggest crowds whenever he came through, and when he wrestled in the Garden it was the whole of New York’s Italian population, shoulder to shoulder, packed like sardines to see the hero of Little Italy.

Many historical wrestling moments have happened over the years at this Mecca of sports stadiums, and tonight, by way of the Kliq, one more would be added to the annals of history.

Kevin, Scott, and Shawn were standing near Gorilla, warming up while they waited for the current match to finish – Shawn and Kevin would be going on next, Scott and Hunter had already been. In all their opinions the night was going by far too fast for their liking – it was Kevin and Scott’s last night in the WWF’s employ. They lingered around together all night, not willing to leave each other’s sides for longer than a few minutes – Hunter and Scott had practically sprinted to the locker-room to make sure their stuff was all together before coming back but Hunter had needed to use the john; at this point, to them, there was nothing more important than being together, so the three of them were sure he was taking the fastest piss on record.

It was awkward being there; they spoke in broken phrases and fragments – there was so much to say, but none of them could find the words to express what was in their hearts. They could only hope that the others knew how much they had meant to each other over the years.

Shawn looked up, searching for a distraction and saw Hunter running towards them.   
“Hey!” Hunter called to them. “Are we gonna do it?”  
Shawn’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”  
Hunter pulled up beside them, breathing a little hard. “That thing we talked about in Germany – you know, saying ‘goodbye’ to the fans?”

Nash, Micheals, and Hall looked at each other, they had a vague recollection of that night, but they’d all been pretty hammered – Hunter never drank so little surprise he never forgot anything. Kevin and Scott smiled as the memory slowly came to, and they nodded with encouragement at Shawn who seemed a little reluctant to break kayfabe in such a manner, but was also longing to stick it to his detractors and show the fans how good of friends he had. At last he nodded as well, and said to Hunter. “Go ask Vince, if he says it’s alright then come on out and we’ll be there.”

With a big grin, Hunter ran off through the back to find his boss, worried that he’d miss the chance; luck was with him though and he found Vince chatting with Pat Patterson and Jerry Brisco not too far from Gorilla. He waited until there was a pause, and asked for a word; Vince agreed and took him a little ways away from the others.

“What do you need, Hunter?”  
“Vince, you know how Kevin Nash and Scott Hall are going to WCW, right?”  
“Yes.” There was a touch of chill in his voice at the mention of his loosing two more wrestlers to his rival; Hunter hurried on.  
“Well, would it be okay if, after Shawn and Kevin’s match Scott and I came out and said ‘goodbye’?”  
Vince was silent.  
“We’d just go out, say our goodbyes, maybe take a picture, and that’d be it.”

Vince remained quiet, his gaze never leaving Hunter’s; the young man shifted his feet, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer the silence went. He may have had numerous conferences with Vince, both with the Kliq and without, but the man could still make him squirm.

After what seemed like an eternity, Vince nodded and the smallest of smiles graced his lips.  
“Alright,” he said. “But come right back, don’t linger out there too long – you don’t want to piss the old-timers off more than you have to.”  
“Thanks, Vince!” Hunter dashed off, back towards the Gorilla, spirits flying high; he found Scott standing by the curtains, watching the match. He turned when he heard Hunter running up.  
“Well?”  
“He said ‘yes’!”

Scott smiled, his dark eyes lighting up; without a word he pulled Hunter into an embrace. This wasn’t an unusual action for Scott, but there was something about it this time that made it just a bit more special than all the other times; Hunter embraced him back, feeling the change. He knew what it was as their arms tightened – it was finally real, both Scott and Kevin were leaving. Hunter tucked his head into the older man’s shoulder, his vision blurred and he suddenly felt very young and scared – he loved Scott and Kevin and wanted the best for them, but deep down he didn’t want his friends to leave.

Scott must have sensed the young man’s frets; he put his hand on the back of Hunter’s head, letting him stay there for a while.   
“You’re a good kid, Paul.” Scott said, forgoing Hunter’s stage-name; he pulled back enough to hold the younger man’s face in his hands and look him in the eye. “Don’t let anyone tell you any different – you’re a good kid.”  
Hunter smiled sadly and felt his face grow warm. “Come on, Scott;” he said feeling embarrassed but grateful. “We’ll be seeing each other again.”  
“Yeah, but it won’t be the same. Just…just take care of Shawn, okay? He’s gonna need it, and take care of yourself. Don’t turn into one of these drugged up, punch-drunk losers. Promise?”  
“Promise.”  
Scott smiled and kissed Hunter on the forehead; he released his young friend and glanced out the curtain as the crowed cheered Shawn for his win over Nash.  
“I guess now would be the best time;” he said. “Me first then you?”   
“Sounds good.”

With a last private smile, Scott went through the curtain down towards the caged ring, the cheers of the crowd getting louder; Hunter felt his eyes well up again. Yeah, they’d see each other again, but Scott was right, it wouldn’t be the same; he was glad he’d gotten a final moment. He wiped his eyes clear, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they’d flow again, and followed Scott through the curtains and down the ramp – down to where his friends were waiting for him.

* * *

Just after the steel-cage match between Shawn Michaels and Kevin Nash the magic moment happened – Shawn had just hit Diesel and won the match, and the small crowd of wrestlers watching the little TV’s in the back were among the first to notice Razor Ramone heading down to the ring.

Shawn and Razor, hated rivals in the ring, prowled towards each other with caution, and then embraced like the brothers they were. There was a thrilled roar of approval from the crowd that they could hear and feel in the back of the arena, but as enthused as the crowed was the disapproval of the gathered wrestlers matched it, protest for cheer.

Mark felt himself be bumped and nudged as the guys behind and around him fought for a better view of the action, but he stood his ground like he had been rooted there. The crease in his brow grew deeper, as did his frown; he’d never seen or heard of this kind of disrespect for kayfabe ever in his career. 

Not everyone backstage was offended about the upset of illusion – there were some wrestlers who applauded and hooted their approval of the scene, and joined the ever-increasing cheers from the audience when Diesel stood up from the mat and let it be known how good of friends they all really were. When at last Hunter slipped into the ring and joined them the ovations reached their peak, and the tall Texan glowered at the screen, watching in silence as they all embraced each other in a final group hug.

 

* * *

The next day, Hall and Nash were gone.

All that remained was the memory of ‘incident’ and the anger from the boys and the bookers. He’d heard Hunter and Shawn were going around apologizing to everyone; from wrestlers to bookers there were lots of ‘sorrys’ to give out, but Mark wondered how honest these two really were.

When Shawn came up to him and apologized he felt he could believe it, but he wasn’t wholly satisfied; he gave a lecture about why what they did was wrong and disrespectful – he was sure Shawn had heard it about ninety times already, but he could hear it again. The little man listened in silence, and even had the decency to look sheepish; when Mark had finished Shawn apologized again and Mark said he forgave him (sort of…kind of…not really) and the small man left – with a little bit too much bounce in his step in Mark’s opinion.

It was an hour later when Hunter gave his own apology – the big Texan had seen the young man give at least three other apologies that day and hear three similar lectures much like he had given Shawn. When Hunter at last came to him, Mark could tell by the way he moved – contrite and hang-dog, he’d saved the Undertaker for last. Whether it was because that’s just how it played out or Hunter was plain afraid of his reaction and wanted to save the worst for last, Mark had no idea – call it being full of himself but Mark would later decide it was the latter. As he listened to the explanation and the multiple admissions of guilt he kept his face impassive, studying the kid’s expressions and listening to his tone of voice. He seemed remorseful and sounded so, but Mark wondered if it was just because he and Shawn had gotten in trouble.

“I’m sorry for what we did,” Hunter said again. “It was very disrespectful to you and the boys, everything you’ve worked for…I’m really sorry.”  
Mark nodded, weighing Hunter’s words.  
“Y’know,” he said after a while. “I gotta wonder, what’s t’stop you from trottin’ back to the locker-room with yer buddy and shruggin’ the whole thing off?”  
To his surprise, Hunter chuckled ruefully. “Believe me; I won’t be shrugging this for a long time.” Mark cocked an eyebrow, and Hunter scuffed the toe of his shoe on the floor. “I’m not going to win King of the Ring, Steve is, and I won’t be winning any matches for a long time.”

Mark felt a little bit of the anger over the ‘incident’ disappear when he heard that – a rightful punishment to be sure, fair, memorable, all the things a good punishment should be. That displaced anger was replaced with a touch of pity – like any good punishment it reminded those still in good graces what could happen if they set a toe out of line. Harsh, but Mark was satisfied.  
“I see,” he said at length. “Well, then you don’t need to hear it from me I guess.” And that was that. Hunter nodded, understanding that he was dismissed and looked a little relieved; he turned back down the hall to leave.  
“Hey, kid.” Mark called after. “What’s gonna happen t’Shawn?”

Hunter paused, and looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it and shrugged instead. “I don’t know.” And he left for the locker-room with his hands buried in his pants-pockets, leaving Mark behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, The Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, Scott Hall, Kevin Nash, Vince McMahon.
> 
> So. the Curtain-Call, aka The MSG Incident; as I wrote in the story, the reason it happened was because of a want to say 'goodbye', and it can be argued that the Curtain-Call was the first real show of real-life vs. kayfabe (storyline) and was the first glimpse into what the WWF would become.  
> Afterwards, Shawn and Hunter had to go around and apologize to everyone; bookers, wrestlers, everyone, and this was my interpretation of how Mark would have reacted to it and their respective apologies.
> 
>  
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


	7. The Monday Night Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Monday Night Wars begin, and a mind begins to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! We're finally making head-way into the actual relationship part of the story! The next chapter will be just Mark and Hunter, promise, and the next bunch of chapters will be just them as well. WE'RE ALMOST TO THE SMUT!!  
> Thank you who have been reading and keeping up with this story for being so patient! So much love to all of you! <3 <3 <3
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.
> 
>  
> 
> AT LAST!!! We are making progress!!

When Kevin Nash and Scott Hall made their jump to WCW, there was a big stir over their arrival, because no one was certain at first whether or not they had really left WWF or not. Hall came on Nitro and spoke about a take-over that would be instigated by him and two others; the next week he returned with Kevin Nash in tow, and they called themselves The Outsiders, and the excited audience was now eager to find out who the mysterious third member was. For a week the two former Kliq members teased about the last member, building up the interest to the breaking point, and when at last he was revealed it was a night that would change not only the WCW itself and how it competed with WWF, but also have an impact on everyone who worked there, and not for the better.

Hulk Hogan, the man who had been the figure-head and cash-cow for WWF for years came out into the ring on Nitro, revealing himself to be the third and final member of what was to become the NwO, the New World Order, but this wasn’t the ‘Eat your vegetables, take your vitamins, say your prayers’ Hulk Hogan that a generation had grown up idolizing; this was a new, darker Hollywood Hulk Hogan who was there to kick ass and make money. This time it wouldn’t be Hulkamania running wild; it was the Hulk himself.

The reaction of the crowd was outstanding, they threw trash into the ring – so much that the NwO was literally wading in it; the audience boo’d their former hero for turning his back on them, they had believed in him for so long, hoped that he would put these two upstarts in their place, only to find out he was working with them all along. It was heartbreaking for them, and it was one of the most brilliant moves in wrestling history.

With Hulk Hogan and The Outsiders running rampant at WCW, their ratings shot up, and it was smooth sailing for Eric Bishoff; the same could not be said, however, for Vince McMahon.

A couple months went by, and the best way to describe these months was hellish for the men and women employed by the WWF. They were far behind in the ratings; WCW was beating them six ways from Sunday. Every wrestler working for Vince knew that the product they made was far better than what Bishoff was selling, but somehow the fans couldn’t see that. They tried to console themselves with the knowledge that they didn’t just rely on TV’s like WCW did – that they were more wide-spread because they traveled and played at more varied venues, but it was a small and useless comfort.

As the World Wrestling Federation Champion, a lot of the blame for the poor ratings fell unfairly on Shawn Michaels – they claimed he wasn’t doing enough to put the WWF out there and not having good matches. This was what the men and women who couldn’t get over their frustration and dislike for the small Texan claimed, but for those who could put aside their feelings and view the situation with unbiased eyes they could see that Shawn was not the one to blame. Later on many would say that if it were not for Shawn Michaels the WWF would have gone under. He wasn’t having just good or satisfactory matches out there; he was putting on some of the greatest shows night after night – his work kept the struggling company bobbing afloat in the black rather than sinking in the red, month after desperate month.

What kept the others from seeing all this was Shawn’s deteriorating attitude; since the formation of the Kliq he had been attacked from all sides, and now that three of his best friends were gone, and his only remaining friend was being punished and kept away from him he was becoming bitter and angry with the world. Hunter could see it clear even though he was not allowed to ride with Shawn any more; Pat Patterson and Jerry Brisco could see it, and even Vince – as busy and overwhelmed as he was, could see it. 

They saw his anger and depression growing, but Shawn’s talent behind the anger overshadowed his personal problems, and they were loath to lose his abilities at such a crucial time. Because of this, they let him get away with a lot of bad behavior with only some chiding or finger-wagging with stern warnings tagged on at the end. The problems were being ignored rather than solved, and became the cause for much unrest during Shawn’s title reign and only added to dislike by his fellow wrestlers in the locker-room. But Shawn was a big draw, and Vince wanted to keep him happy. 

At this time in the WWF there were three big draws in the company: Shawn Michaels, The Undertaker, and Bret Hart – to lose any of these men, Vince thought, would bring about his ruin, and he was ready to do whatever it took to keep them onboard. While Shawn did come to him at this thin time to request more money because of the work he was doing, he stated he did not want to get paid more than The Undertaker.

“He’s earned every penny,” Shawn said, and had no problem with earning less than Mark, but he wanted to be sure he was getting well-paid for the hell he was going through.

The ratings war had everyone on edge anticipating pink-slips; a lot of wrestlers jumped ship and fled for the greener pastures WCW promised them. More money and fewer matches meant more time at home with their families and a more comfortable and normal life-style than what they had when working for WWF. It’s a rough life out on the road for a wrestler – broken homes were a given in their profession, so the offer WCW waved in front of them was too good to pass up. 

Lex Lugar, a former member of the fabled Four Horsemen stable, crossed over in the middle of the night with no warning; Diamond Dallas Page did the same not long after. Mark himself had received offer after offer from WCW, but he always turned them down. They’d fired him once before, not long after he joined with Sid Vicious to make the New Skyscrapers tag-team, because they thought he wasn’t going to go anywhere. 

Though it would be nice to rub it in their faces what a big star he’d become, Jim Herd wasn’t there any more and he doubted the bookers who likely had a hand in giving him the shaft were either, so there was no point. The money and free-time sounded nice, but what was to stop them from firing him again? Besides, he liked the WWF, he liked Vince, he liked the work, the people, the laid-back atmosphere in the locker-room, and he even enjoyed the traveling in a way; he also couldn’t deny he had a good thing going with the Undertaker persona. He knew where he stood with Vince and the company as a whole – why would he ever leave?

He wasn’t sure if Shawn or Bret had received offers as well, but he was certain they had; so far it didn’t look like either of them was planning to leave yet and as far as he knew, Hunter wasn’t making the jump, though he’d had every opportunity and right to do so what with the punishment he was being put through.

After the MSG incident which was now being called the Curtain Call, Hunter had been made an example of by Vince. As he had told Mark, every match he was in he lost; it didn’t matter who he was up against, even Henry Godwinn who wrestled with the gimmick of a pig farmer won against him – in a pig-pen match of all things. Not just one pig-pen match, but a series of them, _for six whole months._ Even Mark winced at that one – getting pig slop thrown in your face and being tossed into real, honest-to-god pig-shit was something no one wanted to do, but Hunter didn’t grumble, and if he did it was only in private.

And like Hunter had said, Stone Cold Steve Austin had been given the honor of winning King of the Ring against Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts, and they had been watching Steve skyrocket to stardom with awe ever since. Mark had waited to hear Hunter’s bitter complaint, saying to anyone who would listen that that should have been him and not Steve, but they never came. The young man came in, wrestled, lost, and left; he spoke with the other wrestlers, but Mark never heard a word of complaint from him. The Texan was pleased with his attitude, and his icy feelings toward the young Northerner started to thaw.

All he’d had to go on personality-wise for Hunter was his behavior when he was hanging out with the Kliq, but now that the young man was separated from his friends Mark was seeing a different side of him. Humble, respectful, hard-working – all of these attributes had been there before, and as rich and clear as they were now, but Mark hadn’t been able to see them through the blinding haze of conceit that came with being part of the Kliq. When he really thought about it though, Hunter had been the mildest of the group. He was arrogant and rude for sure, but every time Mark saw him with fans he was always gracious, and though he could cause a ruckus in his own way when he went out with friends he never got drunk and uncontrollable – in fact, he seemed to prefer working out and then going straight to the quiet of the hotel rather than bar-hoping so he could hang out with his friends. 

Unfortunately, he had hung around people who were rowdy and had bad reputations, and even though they weren’t allowed to ride together anymore, he still met up with Shawn when they arrived at the arenas and remained close to him until they were separated again by travel; the fact that he still hung with Shawn was bad enough for just about everyone backstage – including Mark. But now, with this new facet to Hunter’s personality wiped free of the Kliq, Mark was finding the information he had wasn’t enough to keep his old opinion afloat.

Perhaps it would be smooth sailing from here on in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: The Undertaker, Triple H, various WWF & WCW wrestlers.
> 
> The Monday Night Wars were really a fascinating time in the WWE - wrestlers really did jump ship in the literal middle of the night. They would appear on WWF, and then after their segment was done they'd drive or fly down to WCW and be on their show the next night, having negotiated a contract behind Mr. McMahon's back and left without giving a two-week notice or even letting any of the higher-ups know they weren't happy with their job.
> 
> Shawn really did ask for more money, which is fair considering, and he did ask that the Undertaker continue to be paid more than him.  
> It's also true about the blame for the poor ratings falling on Shawn alone, and since he was the Champion everyone was gunning for his place and didn't care about his well-being in the process. Even McMahon was guilty of not showing consideration for Shawn's well-being by letting him get away with bad behavior and preferring to keep his cash-cow happy so he'd stay.
> 
> And yes, the pig-pen matches with Hunter really did happen. For six months they happened. Oddly though, he writes in his book that those matches are some of his fondest memories - even if he had to throw out six sets of gear.


	8. The Curtain Is Pulled Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the air begins to be cleared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, The Undertaker
> 
> This chapter is the result of all of my research about the Kliq and their influence in the WWE. There are still grey areas, and the men and women who worked with the members of the Kliq will always have their opinions based on their own personal experiences. I encourage all of you who are interested to do research of your own and formulate your own opinions on them and what they did in the business.  
> And from my research I have learned that, if you end up hating them in the end, none of them can be bothered to give a shit.
> 
> THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION! I am not making money off of this. All characters belong to the WWE and Vince McMahon.

Several months later, the WWF was still miles behind in the ratings, and work was becoming a chore with the looming threat of closed doors. Dragging himself out of the locker-room, freshly showered, but feeling dog-tired – psychologically drained and physically beaten to a pulp, Mark was looking forward to unwinding at a stip-bar with some friends and taking some somas when he got back to his truck. A night of fun uninterrupted by physical pain or mental fatigue in the arms of alcohol, drugs, and strippers was just what the doctor ordered – a doctor soon to be sued for malpractice, but a doctor nonetheless, and he thought longingly of the fanny-pack loaded with gimmicks in his duffle-bag he carried over his shoulder.

 _‘Just a few drinks first,’_ he thought, planning his night out as he strode down the hall. _‘One or two…or six. Then a few somas, then some exotic dancers to sweeten the deal, one, or two…or six.’_ He smirked to himself as he headed out the metal double-doors to the near-empty parking lot – just a few stragglers left from the crowd discussing what-all and the rentals of a few wrestlers sitting in the sickly glow of the tall lamps, not to mention the equipment trucks that were still being loaded. He was about to step out into the parking lot when he heard a faint, sad sigh from somewhere to his right; glancing around his eyes soon landed on the form of a young man, half-hidden in the shadows against the wall of the arena a few yards away from the door he’d just left. 

It was Hunter. 

Mark was a little surprised to see him – he thought Hunter had left a while ago.  
 _‘What’s he still hangin’ around for?’_ Mark wondered. _‘And why’s he hiding like that?’_  
He noticed the way the young man was hunched over, a tight line in his shoulders, his arms crossed and resting on his knees, and his forehead resting on top of them.  
“Kid, y’alright?” Mark asked.  
The young man looked up, startled, having forgotten where he was, but he regained himself fast and nodded, eyes quick to look back down at the cement under his shoes.  
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, thanks.”  
 _‘Clearly.’_ Thought Mark. “Where’s Shawn? Thought you two’d be out and about on the town.”  
Hunter shook his head, not looking up from the ground. Mark’s brows furrowed, _'Did they have a fight?'_ He wondered, or maybe Hunter had gotten some bad news from home. _‘Probably just as tired as you are – don’t be readin’ into things that aren’t there.’_ But he didn’t think it was weariness he was seeing in the kid’s face. 

He wasn’t certain what to say – he realized that he’d never really had much more than angry or critical words for the kid and didn’t know how to talk to him man-to-man, and he wasn’t certain Hunter would listen in this state. Then again, with him sporting the dejected look of a man spurned and hiding in the shadow of the arena, maybe this was the right time – he imagined the kid wanted nothing more than to unload on someone, anyone. 

Mark thought back to when he himself had been as green as Hunter, and how lonely the nights could be; he recalled seeing Hunter surrounded by the members of the Kliq and how close they all were, now the majority of them were gone, and thanks to the Curtain Call he was now cut off from his only friend left in the company, banned from ridding with him. The animosity in the back some days was flagrant, and seemed to be more than anyone man could abide, but somehow, alone against the heat, Hunter held up without a word of protest. Now, however, that mask of strength seemed to be slipping, showing a hurt young man alone against the wrestling world; Mark’s heart softened.

A stern voice in his head told him it was none of his business – he shouldn’t get involved, and in any other situation, regardless of the person, he wouldn’t intrude unless he was asked. Though he felt bad for the kid, he also felt it would be best to listen to that voice; if Hunter wasn’t asking for help, then he either didn’t want it or wasn’t ready for it.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” Mark said, turning away; he heard a grunt of acknowledgement behind him and was ready to leave it as it lay, but as he walked another voice, small – barely a whisper in his head, told him to stay. He fought internally with himself for a few moments as he continued walking, wanting to ignore the soft reproach, arguing that it wasn’t his problem because out here he wasn’t the leader he was in the locker-room and ring. Men handled their own problems out here and let that be the end of it.

But that gentle voice scolded him; since when had he ever let a fellow wrestler wallow in pain? When had he stopped caring about his boys? And yes, they were _his_ boys, even Hunter and Shawn fell under that cloak of protection even if they and a few others were barely clinging to the hem of it. That same voice reminded him of his duty as a human being as well as a man; though outside of the ring, the locker-room, arena, and even his own circle of friends, Hunter was still his responsibility. 

Mark stopped walking and let out a quiet sigh – his night was shot for sure now; he hoped the guys at the bar would understand. In the forefront of his mind, over all his other worries, he wondered if he’d regret this decision.

“Hey,” Mark said turning back. “…how ‘bout you come out with me fer a beer?”  
Hunter shook his head. “I don’t drink. Sorry. Thanks for the offer though.”  
Mark shrugged. “You can watch me drink instead then – it’d be nice t’have some company. Drinkin’ alone’s all well-and-good, but its best with two or more.” He tilted his head and gave him a small smile. “An’ you look like you could use a change of scene.”

Hunter tried to return his smile, but Mark could see it was a struggle to even lift the corners of his mouth – it soon fell away. Looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, the kid stood, grabbing his bag, and followed Mark through the parking lot – one step behind and head down as if he was being led to the principals’ office for expulsion rather than a truck to a bar. They climbed in and headed out onto the road.

* * * 

Mark didn’t mind Hunter’s refusal to drink – and neither did his wallet for that matter; he continued to toss back shots of Jack Daniels and sip his glass of rye as Hunter took distracted sips from his cranberry juice. The two of them sized each other up the way two new acquaintances do, picking their way with care around bits of conversation, giving one-word answers or half-hearted shrugs and grunts, neither agreeing or disagreeing with what the other said. At first, Mark kept thinking with regret about the strip-bar he was missing out on, but eventually the two of them found common-ground simply with their experiences with bars and travel, though Mark’s experience with the former was more hands-on and Hunter’s was more through observance. All at once talking became easier and the air between them more relaxed than it ever had been – albeit, still foggy enough for both of them to feel the past hanging around like an oppressive storm cloud about to break.

After a bit, they eased into reflection on this past night’s matches and it was here conversation became as easy as breathing; Hunter became animated – it was enjoyable for Mark to listen to the kid’s opinion about the matches and his break-down of them. He’d been paying close attention to all of them and had a good head for ring-psychology, and Mark had a pleasant time of really breaking down and critiquing the matches rather than simply dismissing one or praising another. 

As they talked, their conversation drew nearer to the locker-room. Mark spoke with care, edging around the topic he really wanted to discuss: the Kliq and their influence. He waited for a good moment to bring it up; he had decided on the quiet drive to the bar that now was the time to talk about that noticeable shift of power when Hall and Nash had been here and if that stable – though now cut in half, would still be a problem for the boys in the back. The Texan figured that if either of the remaining members of the Kliq was to be confronted it should be Hunter.

The kid was young – not as young as some, but young and green enough, and might be more willing to bend when he didn’t have his buddies behind him. It was time to banish the shadow of the Kliq once and for all.

“Y’know,” Mark said in a lull after some laughter. “You’re a pretty smart kid.”  
“Thanks,” Hunter said with an appreciative smile as he took a gulp of juice.  
“What confuses me though, is why a smart kid like you got mixed up with the Kliq?”

Hunter slowly set his drink down, his guard rising; he looked Mark up and down as though the last hour had not happened and once again sized the big man up, seeing how much trouble he’d be. It was a bold action, not something Mark was used to from men he worked with this long; after a few moments, Hunter relaxed back into his seat a little bit and took up his glass again.

“Why?” He repeated as he raised the glass to his lips. “Because they were the stars of the show, and I wanted to hook my wagon up to them.”  
Mark was a little taken aback at the bald honesty and defiant tone – he’d suspected ladder-climbing to be the reason, but he wasn’t expecting Hunter to be so forward, so at ease with it. Hunter noticed his surprise and gave him a sly smile.  
“I’d say it worked.”  
“That’s not the right way to go about this business, kid.”  
“Maybe not, but like I said, it works.”  
“Until it doesn’t, and they find out what your friendship is based on.”

A bark of laughter came from the young man. “Our friendship was based on them needing a designated driver! They all knew from the get-go why I started riding with them – I told them immediately the day I met Shawn and Kev, but _they_ told _me_ to ride with them; they said they’d had their eye on me for a while when I was working for WCW and when I was waiting to get a rental car, Kevin called me over and said to jump in. After a few miles they told me that from now on I was riding with them. And I didn’t come up with the idea to talk to them on my own, Terry Taylor down at WCW told me to talk to them first – he’s the one who told me that they were where the company was going and said if I wanted to get anywhere in the WWF I should get in with them.”

Mark’s brows furrowed. He knew Terry a little bit, – met him a few times when he, himself had worked down in WCW and he knew Terry was very into working with new talent – he could very well have given Hunter a few pointers on who to rub elbows with.

“Do you know how that looks?” He asked.  
“I don’t care!” Hunter snapped, and Mark inwardly jumped, not expecting the sudden vehement verbal lash from such a normally calm and collected man. Anger that was always hidden and controlled flashed in the kids’ eyes. “I don’t give a shit what they think, and I don’t give a shit what they say about me, the boys or the smarks – yeah I know what they say about me too, but they’re all full of it anyway; I just care about delivering the best product.”  
“Part of that involves showin’ some respect.” Mark shot back. “You boys never gave any, runnin’ rough-shod over everyone –”  
“Before they could do it to us, and you know they would have.”  
“Who would?”  
“All of the guys! Every one of them! You can’t tell me with a straight face that none of those guys would think twice about burying us if it meant a chance at the title and a bigger paycheck. If we weren’t in a group we would’ve been ripped to shreds, torn down piece by piece, one at a time until we were mid-carders or jobbers. Because we stuck together the guys thought twice about coming after us. And speaking of the guys you say we ran over –“ Hunter leaned back into his seat, his jaw tight and his gaze challenging. “I’d say they’re just upset that they weren’t smart enough or fast enough to think of it first.”

Mark felt a little anger start to rise inside at the kid’s contemptuous tone, but he wondered if his anger was spawning from assuming he, himself, was included in Hunter’s accusation of back-stabbing. To be honest though, deep down he felt an almost equal amount of sheepishness because he knew that Hunter was right. The locker room was the on-land equivalent of a shark-tank, and down at WCW it was rumored to be even worse, and to get ahead in this business it took more than just a strong work-ethic and drive. Mark had been lucky; he’d gotten in with the boys early, hanging with Jake the Snake and keeping up with the veteran’s legendary partying. He’d earned respect at the expense of his liver and sinuses, thanks to all the Jack and smack, and by the fact that despite the heavy partying, he still showed up at every arena and TV ready to work every day and delivered. 

He knew Hunter was angry, and he understood why, but how could he make him see that it didn’t have to be this way? Mark had to try.  
“First of all:” He said as he leaned forward, holding up a finger to get and keep Hunter’s attention. “Not everyone in this business is out to get you –”  
“But most of them are.”  
“Let me finish!” Mark snapped, like a parent to an errant child. “Yes, that’s the nature of this business, an’ it sucks – everyone chasin’ that gold and forgettin’ why we do what we do. I’ve seen so many guys get trampled and beaten down until they were forced out, so I wanna know: Do you think _I’d_ bury you to get to the top?”  
“No, I –”  
“No, I wouldn’t. Do you think _I’d_ spread rumors about you?”  
“No, not –”  
“No, I wouldn’t. Did y’ever think that maybe you’d have some allies in the back if you’d just show some respect every once-an’-then an’ give us a chance?” 

Hunter threw his hands into the air, looking like he was reaching the end of his patience. “But they won’t give us a chance!”  
“What do you mean?”  
“They keep boxing us in! They don’t let us try new things because they’re too comfortable with how it’s always been; when we do something new out there, all the boys start complaining and saying that we’re bad for business and that we’re shitting on all of them. That’s not the case – it’s not true and they know it’s not, but they don’t want to change anything so we just get stagnant and boring and all the while WCW is laughing at us as our doors get closer and closer to closing!

“If they’d just trust us, just a little bit, they’d see that we’re doing something good! That’s why we talk to Vince all the time – he’s the only one willing to take risks! And I hear them all the time in the back _‘The Kliq are in with Vince. The Kliq have got his ear.’_ Well why the hell shouldn’t we want to get close with Vince? We want to know what’s going on, we want to have a say; it’s our company too – yours, mine, Shawn’s, all the guys’. The Kliq wanted it to do well, and Shawn and I still want it to do well, so the more we get involved the better. 

“We genuinely like Vince, and we like Pat and Jerry too; we want to talk to them and we want to listen to what they say, and what makes it better is that they want to hear what we have to say. We’d give our opinions and they’d listen and actually discuss it with us. Sometimes Vince would like what we came up with and he’d use it, but sometimes he didn’t, but he always let us talk to him and he was always willing to have a discussion about it. Now here’s the thing a lot of the guys haven’t realized yet: They can talk to Vince too. He wants to hear their opinion, he wants to know what they think – they have all the opportunity in the world to go up to him and discuss ideas with him, but they don’t, and that’s their own fault. The Kliq didn’t have the pull with Vince you all think we did, and we don’t now – yeah, he asked our opinions, and still does with Shawn and I, but that’s because he knows we’re really interested in the business, and it’s all because we talked with him and he could see it.”

Mark looked unconvinced, so Hunter pushed on.

“You want to know what we talk about when we’re on the road? When it’s just Shawn and I, and when the rest of the Kliq was here? We talk about the story-lines – how to set up interesting matches: business stuff, and that’s about all. No joke. We discuss matches we’ve seen and talk about what did and didn’t work and why – we analyze every bit we see. When I’m not working out and when Shawn’s not partying, we study tapes of matches and break them down, and so do Kev, Scott, and Kid. Vince knows we do; he doesn’t green-light everything we say, but he appreciates that we have the balls to come up to him and tell him what we think. _That’s_ why he listens to us. Did we bury people? Yes. Yes we did, but we never went behind their back, we did it to their face and told them why – not our fault if they didn’t shape up. You know Jean Pierre Lafitte, the pirate? He was low on the card and didn’t want to put Kevin over even though Kev was the champ; now you know that’s not right – you always put over the champ, no matter who it is, especially if you’re as low-card as him, but he wouldn’t. So we buried him. We even called Vince up about it, but Vince said that he’d talk to him. That’s the other thing: No matter what we think or say or do, Vince always has the last word, and if he doesn’t like it then it’s not happening.

“I’ll let you in on a secret; a few months ago, before Kevin and Scott left, Vince called us into his office to ask us what we thought about every wrestler in the locker room.” Mark’s eyes widened, but Hunter cut him off before he could say anything. “He wanted to know which of the guys we’d want on our team; we went through the whole list – it included you and Bret, and you want to know what we all said about you two?” Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “We said Bret was a self-centered asshole, but that aside he was a great technical wrestler, a hard worker – always did what was asked of him without complaint. We said he was a good, reliable man to have around. And you,” the younger man leaned in. “We said there was no bigger draw than you. That you’re a fantastic wrestler, the best worker in the business, and the one who’s in control of us all; we told Vince that if he ever got rid of you he’d be sorry because you hold the locker room together and keep us in line. We said the boys, us included, need you.” 

Hunter sat back in his chair, shoulders drooping just a little and looking exhausted – that had probably been building up for a while. Mark was stunned into silence – the kid had at last given voice to the resentment behind his long months of impassive quiet. He’d had no idea all that had been going through Hunter’s mind all this time, and his mind was staggering a little from the tirade.

He wanted to call bull-shit on all that the young man had said, but looking at Hunter he saw the same unbendable will that he’d seen when the kid had stood up to him at the sports bar. It was all so difficult to argue with. The young man continued.

“We never said _‘this guy should be fired’_ we never told Vince to get rid of anyone; it’s his company and his prerogative to hire and fire anyone he wants – he’ll always have the last word. He asked us because he trusted our opinions – he knew since we were separate from the rest of you we’d have a clear view of how everyone was doing and wouldn’t be biased because we were friends with them. Like you said at the bar that one night – how did you put it? _‘We ain’t shit – not with the boys, or with anyone.’_ ”

Mark found his mouth to be quite dried out. He took a swallow of rye and regrouped – trying not to linger on how the Kliq had defended his position in the company, or the angry and even hurt undertone Hunter had quoted him with. 

“Part of the reason for that attitude,” Mark said. “Is because you boys hog the titles.”  
“You act like we were the first and only people to do that.”  
“Yer not, but that doesn’t make it right.”  
“Oh, we’re back to what’s right again.” Hunter said with an eye-roll. “Because _everyone_ does what’s right for this business – no one _ever_ has a selfish reason for doing _anything_.”  
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be doin’ what’s right,” Mark growled. “So is that why you boys hogged them? You were bitter? Wanting to prove a point?”  
“No!” Hunter snapped. “Hell, isn’t it obvious? Once you’re on top you want to stay there!”  
“But you have to cycle out and give the younger guys a chance.”  
“And we would have if we were asked to, but we never were; we must have been doing something right because the only people who complained about it were the boys, and then it was behind our backs!”

Mark listened as Hunter described the reasons he and his friends had refused to support a number of wrestlers to rise in the business, and his building anger slowly seeped away – he was surprised at the well thought-out rational for each man they hadn’t supported, and found himself agreeing more often than not. There were several times he had to refute the claims Hunter made, but for the most part the kid knew what he was talking about. After a while his anger was gone and he found he was pleased and even amused at the energy Hunter exuded while talking of their business, and with the arguments he was coming up with, Mark had no doubt that Hunter’s joining the Kliq – while being for social and personal-gain reasons, had been nothing but beneficial from a learning standpoint. 

Until the Curtain Call happed, anyway. 

“Looks like you’ve got an answer for everythin’” Said Mark. “So then tell me about breakin’ kayfabe at the Garden. Whose idea was it?”  
Hunter sighed, suddenly looking a little guilty. “Shawn, Kevin, and Scott, but they were drunk when they came up with it – I don’t know if they really meant it or if they were just talking, but I don’t drink, so I was the only one who remembered. I asked them just before they went out for the match if we were still going to do it and they’d forgotten all about it. After I reminded them they told me to check with Vince to see if it was alright – I did, and he gave his okay…” 

Hunter’s eyes dropped to the table. “It was Kevin and Scott’s last match before they went over to WCW – we just wanted to say goodbye.”  
“It was disrespectful – no matter which way y’slice it.”  
“I know,” Hunter said, looking back up. “But they were leaving, and we just wanted to do something special.”  
“Then y’gotta do it afterward; you know the rules.”  
“Yeah, but we just…we got caught up.”  
They were quiet for a time.  
“We told Vince – he said it was okay.”  
“He shouldn’t’ve. He knows better than anyone.”  
Hunter spread his hands, looking at a loss for an explanation. 

Quiet fell between them again; Mark played with his near-empty glass – watching the reflected light play on the table as he turned it. He looked back up at the young wrestler.  
“You didn’t complain though.”  
Hunter shrugged. “What’s to complain about?”  
“Yer shoulderin’ all the blame, aren’t you?”  
“Yeah, I am.” 

Mark wasn’t’ sure, but he thought he caught a flash of bitterness in Hunter’s eyes, but if it was there it disappeared as the kid shrugged his shoulders again. “But then who else it gonna take it? Kevin and Scott are gone, and Shawn’s the champ, so he’s untouchable. There’s only me. Vince made it clear I’d have to learn to eat shit and like it, but he said I’d have the chance to work my way back up eventually. Yeah, it sucks being a jobber, but it’s fair. What we did was disrespectful, and I understand why I’m the one who has to take the whipping, but as long as I know I’ll at least have the opportunity to come back then I’m okay with the punishment.” 

Mark was impressed. He’d expected to hear a lot of grumbling from the kid, but all he was hearing was a lot of humble acceptance.  
 _‘Did I really have you figured that wrong?’_ He wondered. 


	9. The Road Diverges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which The Deadman takes the Blueblood under his wing.

“Sorry for ruining your plans if you had any.” Hunter said when Mark parked in the lot of the hotel Hunter was staying in for the night.  
“Don’t worry about it.” Said the Texan, “There are strip-clubs aplenty in the world, so missing out on one’s not gonna kill me. …Hey, I know you’ll be ridin’ with Shawn tomorrow, but –”  
“No I won’t be.”  
“No? Why not?”  
Hunter sighed. “Vince doesn’t want us riding together anymore. Shawn’s a babyface and I’m a heel – he says we can’t be seen together.”  
“Well, that makes sense – that’s how it’s always been done.”

Hunter shot him a look of resentment, but just shook his head in irritated silence and looked away.  
“Thanks for listening.” The kid said, and headed toward the doors; the Texan could hear the sarcasm coating what was to have been an honest ‘thank you’, but Mark had to go and agree with Vince’s decision. The kid might be mad, but the Undertaker didn’t apologize for his two-cents, so Mark sure as Hell wouldn’t.  
Watching Hunter’s retreating back, Mark thought of the kids’ anger, of his isolation, of the hurt in his voice that had escaped as he explained and accused back at the bar; such emotions shouldn’t be left to fester any longer.

“Hunter.” He called out. The young man looked back.  
“I want you to ride with me tomorrow.” Mark said. “Give Anne a call and she’ll have someone pick up your car to return it. I’ll be out here at five.” Not giving Hunter any chance to argue, Mark strode away, lighting up a cigarette, and climbing into his car; as he pulled out, Hunter was still standing on the landing of the hotel, watching him with a look on his face that was a mix of surprise, mild bewilderment, and even a touch of suspicion. He put on the brakes and pointed at Hunter, cigarette burning between his fingers. “Five sharp.” He commanded, and drove off, not waiting for confirmation.

Once out of the parking lot and back on the lamp-lit road, Mark took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing it out through his nostrils and savoring the burn, letting it singe away some of his own resentment and awkwardness that had been building up inside since Hunter’s candid tirade. If there was one thing Mark had learned tonight it was that the kid already had a good head for the business and was eager to learn as much as he could and put it into practice. His thirst for knowledge had led him on a bad path unfortunately, and there was no way he could come out smelling like roses, but anyone with a working pair of eyes and sense in their head could see the talent was there, it just needed to be refined. Hunter had the makings of greatness in him, if he could just learn to let go of all of that anger. 

The kid had a lot of bitterness built up inside of him, and he was very good at keeping it quiet – Mark considered himself a very observant man, but he’d had no idea Hunter had been as upset as he was, and Mark was certain he’d only scratched the surface. But maybe there was still time to bleed some of it out before it poisoned Hunter to the boys as a whole and he became a cynical, mean-spirited, punch-drunk vet who ended up ostracized by the wrestling community. Mark had seen it before, and there were few things sadder in his eyes.

He’d decided in the silence on the drive back to the hotel that the best thing for the kid was to make him ride along. Mark would keep an eye on Hunter. Try and help him work through the bitterness and let the kid know that he could come and talk to him if he needed to. He had a suspicion that the whole ‘babyfaces don’t ride with heels’ shtick Hunter had been fed was total bullshit – clearly the kid thought so too. Being a ‘face himself, he’d have to talk to Vince about it tomorrow and make sure the boss was okay with it. He doubted there would be much of a problem. 

Flicking ash out the window, he turned into the lot of the hotel he was staying at, and pondered the ride in store for the both of them.

* * * 

The next day, just as the suns’ distant rays were brushing the night sky and paling it towards morning twilight, Hunter waited with packed bags under the awning of the hotel. He was showered and shaved, blond hair pulled back into a pony-tail, wearing slacks and a tucked in pink polo shirt; he dressed like this for most rides from match to match, dressing well like a high-school football player on game-day to show how much he cared about his profession. 

His stomach quivered with nervousness; he wasn’t sure how this ride with the Undertaker was going to go – especially after all he’d said last night. He’d pondered why Taker had wanted him to ride along, and the most likely explanation he could think of was the big man wanted to keep an eye on him; Hunter felt resentment at that thought – he was sure the other boys had made multiple suggestions of the same sort to the Texan. If not specifically saying the Undertaker should keep an eye on him, at least saying with spite that young Hunter Hearst-Helmsly needed to be put in his place and kept in line, and who better to do that than the Undertaker?

He frowned to himself as he re-hashed his thoughts from last night.  
 _‘Yeah, keep Hunter in line,’_ he thought with venom. _‘Because unlike Shawn, he’ll take it quietly and lying down.’_

Hunter’s scowl grew deeper, and his nervousness was replaced with a bitterness he could feel bubble in the back of his throat, but he pushed it down – now was not the time or place for it.

 _‘But if not now, when?!’_ the enraged part of him cried. He was so tired of hiding his anger, only letting it out when he got to the gym or into a hotel room alone – just once he’d like to work stiff with one of those guys who put him down. Just once…

But that wasn’t professional – that wasn’t how you made it to the top in this business. He pictured himself as the top guy, as the one holding the Championship belt, as the one having individual, private meetings with Vince and having his ideas accepted and praised. He pictured all the guys in the back, scowling at him as he walked by, back straight and head held high with the title belt draped over his shoulder. They’d be so pissed off they wouldn’t be able to speak when he’d great them in a amiable fashion, smiling wide and shaking their hands. Those that could find their voices despite the bile in their throats would give him a tight smile, unable to hide the rage from their eyes. But Hunter wouldn’t be bothered, because he would be on top and they would be stuck in mid-card Purgatory or jobber Hell.

That thought gave him great comfort, and he unconsciously straightened his posture and a little smile blossomed on his lips.  
 _‘Success is the best revenge.’_ He thought. 

Glancing to his left, he saw the Undertaker’s rental truck from last night pull into the hotel parking lot and pull up beside him. They gave each other a nod; Hunter didn’t know it, but the Undertaker liked to see that the he cared enough to clean himself up for every trip, even though the big Texan himself was only wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt with his washed hair hanging loose down his back. 

Hunter threw his bag into the rear of the truck and climbed in the front passengers’ seat; once he was buckled in, Taker handed him a piece of paper with directions on it.  
“Yer my navigator today.” He said.  
“Okay.” Hunter scanned over the instructions, familiarizing himself with the order of turn-offs and gauging the time of day they’d reach their destination. He looked up at the big man.  
“Are we cool? After last night?”  
“We’re cool.” Said the big man, checking for traffic and pulling out onto the main road. “Wouldn’t have asked you t’ride with me if we weren’t.”

Hunter nodded and sat in silence as Undertaker navigated the city. In spite of his indignation at the boys in the back, he found he didn’t have any for the Undertaker – the Texan had been the only one to at least take the time to ask him what was wrong, to care. Glancing over at him, it occurred to Hunter what a great opportunity he’d been given – here he was riding with the Undertaker, the biggest earner in the company, a man who had been on top since the first day he made his appearance in the WWF. What a chance to learn! He would have seen this sooner had he not been so upset last night, but now his head was clear, and as they drove up the on-ramp to the highway, Hunter asked the first of many brain-picking questions. 

* * *

For the next month, Hunter rode exclusively with Undertaker; Mark had only intended for this arrangement to last a few days – a week at most. He figured that was as long as he needed to straighten Hunter out, but Vince had been serious about keeping Shawn and Hunter apart, so after he had confirmed the situation with Vince, Mark insisted that, until further notice, the kid would be his riding partner.

He had gone to Vince after their first ride together and asked him about the reason Shawn and Hunter had been split up and his suspicions were confirmed. McMahon was getting a lot of pressure from the boys in the back to split them up, so for the sake of over-all peace and his own sanity he forbade the two to ride together.

Mark told Vince that he wanted Hunter to ride with him instead – even though he was a ‘face, McMahon permitted his request, reiterating it was only an official reason to keep them apart. When Vince asked him why he wanted Hunter to jump in with him, When Vince asked him about it, Mark had replied, “Just making sure he’s keepin’ his nose clean.”

Vince McMahon approved. He had high hopes for the young wrestler, and it had pained him to be so harsh on him for the Curtain Call, but so far he was pleased with how Hunter was handling it all, and if the Undertaker was pulling him under his wing then he was sure the kid would soar to even greater heights. 

Mark hadn’t been sure what to expect with a riding partner like Hunter, but he was pleasantly surprised; Hunter really was immersed in the business – the kid did little else but pick his brain about it as they drove, and Mark found he enjoyed talking shop with him more-so than he did anybody else. He became excited about the business when they discussed it – it wasn’t just work-talk, it was like talking about motorcycles or his favorite Blues band. It was a pleasure. It always had been, but somehow it became even more of a pleasure when he talked with Hunter about it.  
 _‘Was this what riding with the Kliq was like?’_ He wondered, and if so, he cursed himself for never trying to ride with them.

They showed up at every match together, and the odd road pair did not go unnoticed by the boys in the back, and at every match they’d be followed down the halls by stares of disbelieving wrestlers. The boys weren’t shy about coming up to Undertaker and asking – even demanding to know what was going on.

Taker’s Bone Street Krew brothers: Yoko, Crush, Rakishi, and the Godwins, knew right off what their elder was doing, and nodded their agreement and approval. Like Vince they saw the potential for the young man, and agreed with Undertaker that he had fallen in with the wrong group early on. They were glad about what he was doing, but wished he was able to keep Hunter away from Shawn altogether; Hunter always broke away from Taker not long after they’d arrive and go find Shawn so they could spend a short time together.

Noticing this, Mark would make up reasons to keep Hunter by his side for a little while longer when they arrived. He’d put the kid in situations where he’d have to interact with the boys, either by Mark’s assistance or on his own; he did well for the most part. There were some like Shane Douglas and Bam Bam Bigalow that he outright refused to talk to, and they him, but other times Mark observed him carrying on conversations with other wrestlers, even laughing and joking with them. This gave him hope.

Mark liked the give and take relationship he was forming with his riding-buddy; Hunter would question him endlessly on the drive, and after the matches Mark would go out and party, come back to the hotel early for a few hours sleep, and then Hunter would come, clean and sober, and wake him up. Hunter would do most of the driving, letting Mark sleep a little more in the back seat, and whenever Mark woke up the kid would start asking questions again. It worked very well – perhaps the best riding arrangement Mark had ever had. Not to mention the constant questions and endless curiosity the kid had about his career were kind of flattering.

Hunter hated to admit it, but while he worried and fretted about Shawn being on his own, he welcomed the extended break from him as well. Taker went out and partied, and yes he still had to go and make sure the big man woke up and got from place to place, but there was no drama with the Undertaker like there was with Shawn. He loved his best friend with all of his heart, and missed riding with him, but he’d forgotten what being able to breathe easy felt like.

All good things, however, must come to an end.

Shawn had gone to Vince, depressed and desperate, and begged to be let go. He was having a terrible time as WWF Champion. He was shouldering all the blame for their being behind in the ratings, though the higher-ups knew he more than delivered every night. With his body was screaming in pain every hour of every day, and his drug use was constantly weighing on his mind he was slipping closer and closer to the end of his rope. It didn’t help that he was disliked by most everyone in the locker-room, and the agents and bookers had little love for him; what made it worse is that he no longer had a friend to lean on and laugh with to protect him against all the negativity. With Hunter at his side he had been able to withstand anything anyone threw at him, but now he didn’t have that and it was tearing him apart. 

Dejected and hurting, he went to Vince’s office and asked to be given his walking papers; he wanted to go down to WCW and be with his friends, Nash, Hall, and Waltman, but Vince refused.  
“You don’t want to go down there,” Vince said with a head-shake. “They won’t know how to use you down there – you’ll be miserable.”  
“But I’m miserable now!” Shawn cried, almost in tears. “My friends are gone, I’m taking all this heat I don’t deserve, and you’ve separated me from the one person who could help me get through this – my one friend in this place. Damn it, Vince, I can’t take it! I love this job, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, it’s all I’m good at, but it’s not fun anymore! It’s not –”

Struggling to get himself under control, Shawn cut himself off. Vince understood, and wanted nothing more than to keep his top-talent happy, because if Shawn was happy then the ratings wouldn’t sink lower than they already were. He knew Shawn wasn’t to blame for the ratings, and it pained him to see everyone chip away at the small Texan, but there was little he could do to help – save for one thing. 

Without a word, Vince flipped through his black address book, and plucked his phone from its cradle. “I hear you, Shawn; don’t worry,” he dialed a number as the small man watched with sad, tired eyes. “I know it’s been hard on you. You say wrestling’s not fun anymore? Then we’ll have to make it fun again.”

* * *

This was the last time Hunter would ride with the Undertaker; Vince had called Hunter on his cell-phone while the two were parked at a gas-station and let him know that he and Shawn would be able to ride together again. Hunter had been very happy to hear this, and was in bright spirits for the rest of the drive.

When they got to the arena, the Undertaker asked Hunter to stay outside with him for a bit while he smoked – he wanted a few last words with the kid before he went back to his remaining Kliq member.

“I want you t’know,” the big man said. “That you can come to me if you have a problem. Don’t let it sit. Come an’ tell me, or tell one of my Krew.”  
Hunter nodded, but Mark could all but see the shutters in his eyes close at the mention of the Bone Street Krew boys; it looked like asking for help about anything from anyone but Shawn or Taker was out of the question. Mark’s morale dropped; he’d been so sure he’d reached the young man – had this past month done nothing for the kid’s attitude? 

“Hunter, I understand your frustration, believe me, I do, but…” Mark sighed. “Hunter you gotta – you _gotta_ give the boys a chance t’see _you_. They’ve never been given a chance to get t’know you outside of the Kliq, so to them you’re always gonna be perceived as something we both know yer not. An’ above all, remember that not everyone is out to get you. I’m not. Yoko, Rikishi, Crush, and the rest of the Krew aren’t – that I can personally promise you. You know Owen’s not gunnin’ for your spot, or anyone else’s for that matter, and neither is the Hart Foundation – despite what you think. An’ you can be sure that Mick Foley isn’t out t’get you. Just… _please_ step away from the Kliq for a while and let us see you. These past weeks I’ve learned a lot about you – so much of it good; if I can see that, then so will everyone else if you give them a chance.”

He saw the conflict, how much the kid wanted to say something dismissive, but all he did was nod and say, “Okay.” He reached out his hand and Mark took it to shake.  
“It’s been good ridin’ with you, kid.”  
“You too, Taker. Thanks.”  
“You’re welcome.”

Hunter walked away, and Mark watched his back, wondering how much of what he said actually sunk in and would be taken to heart. Only an hour ago he would have thought it would all have been taken seriously, but now he was sure very little would even be remembered.

When Hunter walked into the arena, he immediately sought out Shawn and they embraced fiercely – they’d seen each other just yesterday, but they were both ecstatic to be back together for good, and their joy was doubled knowing they had won an important battle; everyone had been glad they were separated, and overcoming an executive decision had been a big win for them, and a big ‘fuck you’ to all of their detractors. 

As happy as he was to be reunited with his best friend, it was with no little regret that Hunter passed by Undertaker’s rental the next morning instead of climbing in. It had been a relaxing change and one of the best learning experiences of his career so far – it had also been one of the most enjoyable and comfortable times he’d had since the Kliq was last together, and as he drove out of the lot with Shawn in the passenger’s seat, he found he was a little sad to leave it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, The Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, Vince McMahon, the Bone Street Krew.
> 
> I did it! I set a deadline for myself and made it! Posted by the weekend! ( 3am on a Sunday morning but it's still the weekend)
> 
> This chapter is where reality really ends and fantasy begins. More-so than the last chapter I feel.
> 
> Hunter and Shawn were prevented from riding together for the reasons I mentioned, and they only were able to get back together because of the reasons I mentioned.  
> But as far as I know Hunter and Taker never rode together during this time.
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


	10. The Benefits of Playing Hooky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which forgiveness is earned, as is something else...

After several long and arduous months the locker-room had, for the most part, at last cooled its heels from the Curtain Call and was starting to become a little bit more bearable – for Hunter at least. Shawn was still bitter and angry as ever and was alienating himself more and more, but with the boys still bitching about his part in the Kliq as well as the Curtain Call and all of their constant whining that Shawn wasn’t doing enough to save their show yet not doing their part and delivering like the Heartbreak Kid was, Hunter could understand why his friend was so bitter, and tried to make his life as stress-free as he could.  
He had his work cut out for him to say the least.

But while he was still under probation he had to admit that life among the boys had become a little bit easier for him, and it was all thanks to the Undertaker. They had thawed a little to him when he’d been riding with the Texan, and for the first time in months, Hunter felt more at ease and happy to be at work; the Godwinns were good to him, as was Crush, and he’d won a few others over who had at one time been against him. Some of the boys however, froze back up toward him the minute they saw him back with Shawn – no matter what he did, he would never be in good standing because he was friends with the Heartbreak Kid and would turn their noses up at him in disgust.  
But not the Undertaker.

Hunter had wondered if things would go back to the way they were between himself and the Undertaker once they stopped riding together, and he was glad to see that they had not – they had, in fact, improved. He noticed that Undertaker was a little more pleasant than before; initiating handshakes, waving back to him in the arena parking lot when they saw each other and calling out a ‘hello’. He even held a door open for him when Hunter had his hands full. The Undertaker was friendly to him now when they were one-on-one or even amongst other wrestlers, and what touched Hunter was that he knew Taker didn’t have to be. 

The Undertaker could have gone right back to their old arrangement or taken to shunning him like all the rest because of his continued friendship with Shawn, but despite the looks of warning and the snide comments about Hunter he received from his peers, the big Texan would always take a moment to interact with the younger man. He’d compliment Hunter on his matches and pull him aside to give him an honest critique, and it was something that Hunter appreciated more than he could say. 

* * *

A wrestler’s schedule is a hectic one to say the least. With a match in a different city every day and different state every week there’s barely enough hours in the day to go to the gym, grab a quick tan for the camera’s sake, and eating is usually done at the arena and served up by a catering service. A full-night’s sleep is laughable, you’re lucky to get five solid hours if your hotel neighbors or your roommates (especially your roommates) don’t wake you up. So with such a tight timetable you’d think that a wrestler never has fun. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

Like anything, if you want it bad enough you make the time for it, and every man and woman among them wanted it bad. After the match and a quick shower it’s off to the bars for celebratory drinks (purchased by adoring fans), drugs (taken on the way to the rental either going to or from the bar) and dalliances (also provided by adoring fans). Not much was said about what went on at these bars, as long as you showed up the next day on time and ready to work you could blow up a bank for all the boys cared, just have enough wits about you to catch them when they did the frog-splash and no one would have a problem.

As far as bars went, this one was as cookie-cutter as it could be. In Taker’s opinion, these chain sports-bars, while fun and all, weren’t really bars. Sure there was smoking, sure there was booze, but the over-indulging of the local fans grated on Mark’s nerves more than he liked to let on. In his opinion, a real bar had character that was developed over the years by the burn-marks from cigarettes snubbed out on the tables in stead of the ash-trays, the smoke that hung in the rafters so thick that you could develop an addiction just by breathing in. By the rubbed-off varnish on the bar from numerous beers that had been spilled, dropped, or spit up by the patrons and employees over the years and was now invested forever in the wood grain like the cigarette smoke. Even by the vomit stains on the floor. Hell, the decades-old peanut shells that had made their way into the corners or been wedged under the baseboards and were too difficult to clean up gave home-town bars more character. 

Many bars sprang up over the years, all trying to achieve this coveted, regal status of ‘The Home-town Bar’, but most of them failed. The ones that made it, however, had the privilege of being cemented forever in the fondest memories of the townsfolk and the bars’ name would forever be spoken with a wistful nostalgia long after it was gone. Much like people who touch our lives in the best ways, bars could take on lives of their own, but not these chain sports-bars that kept popping up. They were too loud even for bars what with the tv’s hanging up everywhere, and they were too colorful with all the jerseys and banners covering the walls.  
They were just good for use as watering holes, but even in that they were sub-par.

That’s what Mark thought anyway, and after all the traveling and partying he’d done since he became a wrestler he considered himself a kind of connoisseur of bars, and if he were a bar critic this place wouldn’t even get half a star.

Mark sat alone at a table by the door and watched the comings and goings of the bar patrons, his attitude dour but feeling unable to do anything about it; he wished this low feeling would leave so he could have some fun. He wasn’t sure why he was so down; he was in a bar (even if it was a lousy chain sports bar), surrounded by people he knew could party as hard as him, and beautiful women and handsome men sauntered around looking for a good time – all ripe for the picking. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, none of that interested him tonight. Mark tried to think of the last time he’d sat alone at a bar table, staring deep into his beer, wondering if the bar scene as a whole was really all it was cracked-up to be, and he realized this was the first time since high school when he’d gotten in on a fake I.D. God that was depressing.

That attitude he had towards this particular bar he was at was probably what was keeping him from enjoying himself, but he couldn’t help it, he was feeling surly and wanted to hate everything.

 _‘”He woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Dad would say. “He’s being a little grumpy.” Mom would say. “He’s being a brat!” Say all my brothers.’_ Mark rolled his eyes at that thought and frowned down into his beer. He really wasn’t sure why he was feeling so shitty. He’d been quieter than normal on the trip here despite his Krew’s attempts to cheer him up, and he’d avoided everyone as much as he could at the arena because he was afraid of saying or doing something he’d regret, no matter how small. That tactic always worked as long as you looked busy with something else – he’d learned it when he was growing up and had been mad at his brothers, and it had saved him from a lot of angry confrontations with other kids at school when he was little, until he hit puberty at least. 

His upper lip curled a little, recalling those angry and confusing days; damn it, why did thoughts like that always have to pop up with perfect clarity when he was already feeling rotten? Because he wanted to feel lousy. He was enjoying it on a perverse level and staying in a type of place he didn’t like added to that sourness. Deep down in his brain he wanted to be pissy and sullen, and he liked it.

 _‘”Keep sticking your lip out like that a bird’s gonna shit on it.”’_ Said his oldest brother, his voice floating around in Mark’s head; unconsciously, Mark curled his lower lip in and bit it. He needed to get out of here. He needed a change of pace; if he wanted to get out of this rut, and he needed to – fast, then he’d better quick find someone to hang out with. He looked around the bar for someone he knew – hell, who was he kidding? He knew damn-near everyone here, and was on speaking terms with most of them. It’d be easy to get up and join them – he knew all of them would welcome him to party, but just when he’d decide on a group of people he’d recall something one or all of them did while drunk that he wasn’t fond of or in the mood for, and he’d be back to scanning the bar for someone to hang out with.  
The pickings were becoming slimmer and slimmer by the minute;

At last he saw Bret and perked up for a moment as he waved him over, but when the Canadian moseyed over, drunk and grinning like a fool, Mark saw he was with a leggy brunette with thick lips and his momentary cheer was dashed against the rocks. No way would Bret want to hang out with him if he already had a lady like that on his arm. Normally, Mark would try to coerce the babe off of Bret and swipe her for himself – Bret could handle it, he could get any woman he wanted, but Mark wasn’t up for such a chase tonight.  
“Hey, Deadman!” Bret said as he and his lady of the hour tottered up to his table. “What the heck’re ya doin’ all alone over here fer?”  
“Not really feelin’ it I guess.”  
“Not feelin’ it, eh? Well, ya’know…there’s a lotta lovely ladies an’ lads out tonight who could make ya feel somethin’ fer’sure, guy.”  
“I’ll bet.”  
“Hey, you wanna girl fer the night? Angelina here says she’s got a friend…”  
“Nah.” Mark shook his head. “Not tonight.”  
“Fer serious?”  
Mark nodded. The Canadian shrugged and left with a wave over his shoulder to the Texan, the big-lipped brunette glued to his hip. Mark sighed, resting his chin in his hand again, feeling hopeless as the gloom set in again – it was just one of those nights.

Just as he was toying with the sad thought of going back to the hotel by himself, his eyes drifted over to the far end of the bar where the remainder of the Kliq was sitting with its newest member, an Amazon of a woman named Chyna that Shawn and Hunter had picked up a month ago. She was a tall brunette with bright blue eyes and a granite jaw. She was a bodybuilder and the result of her hard work and dedication made everyone she passed by do a double-take and the contrast of her masculine-type body and the feminine-type clothing on top of the glossy accessories she wore made her a sight. But she took it all in stride and if any of the boys gave her grief she just took one menacing step towards them and the two-three hundred pound boys with the bulging muscles took two startled, flinching steps backward.  
She could handle herself.

She was working as Hunter’s bodyguard – something a lot of the boys made fun of, but with the attention and the resulting heat he was getting from it, Mark had to admit it was a pretty smart idea, and successful.

He had glanced over at the bar just in time to see Hunter stifle a yawn; the Texan smirked – the kid had been doing a good job of hiding his own boredom, but that mask was at last starting to slip. He waited for the kid’s gaze to drift close to where he was sitting and caught his attention, beckoning him. Hunter got up and came to his table; Shawn and Chyna’s eyes followed their companion’s trek; they waved to the Undertaker when they saw him and he waved back. He’d been surprised to realize a few weeks ago that he missed having the Kliq around – there weren’t that many guys with the passion for pro-wrestling that they had, and it was becoming more noticeable by the day since Kevin, Scott, and Waltman had left. He’d been on good speaking terms with Kevin since WrestleMania XII and still continued to chat with him.

Mark smiled as the blond body-builder came up; the big Texan gestured for him to take a seat.  
“How y’holdin’ up, kid?” He asked.  
“Fine,” Hunter said as he settled. “Doing good; you?”  
“Outstandin’.” He nodded towards the bar. “Looked like you were havin’ one hell of a good time over there.”  
Hunter smiled sheepishly. “Bars get kinda dull when you don’t drink.”  
“An’ even more so when you have t’play baby-sitter, I’ll bet.”  
The young man frowned, but the Texan pretended he didn’t notice. “Got a wild idea for you,” Mark said leaning on the table with crossed arms, a sly smile on his face. “How ‘bout you play hooky and get crazy with me for a change?”  
For a moment the young man looked surprised and interested, but then shook his head in regret. “I can’t.”  
The Texan snorted. “Why not? Afraid yer gonna miss out on an excitin’ night of stool-warmin’? C’mon, what’s _he_ gonna do?” He gestured with his head to the bar where Shawn and Chyna sat “Dock yer pay? You need t’have a good time too. Besides, Shawn’s got Chyna with ‘im, so he’s golden. You don’t have t’worry about ‘im, an’ if he was a good friend he’d want you to have fun too.”

Hunter looked uncertain; Mark glanced up at the bar and saw Shawn watching the two of them. The tall Texan bent closer to the blond. “Just come out with me tonight.” He said. “We won’t go to a bar; we’ll do somethin’ _you_ wanna do. You’ll have a good time.”

The kid considered it for a few minutes and with a nod and a smile he moved to stand, but Mark put a hand on his wrist to still him for a moment. “An’ you don’t need t’tell him; he knows yer with me. I’ll get you home in one piece.” The blond smirked and followed him to the door which the Texan held open for him, and they disappeared out of the building. Back at the bar, Shawn was staring after them – watched them leave with a slight pang of disappointment, but shrugged and ordered another beer as he polished off the one in his hand.

* * *

The two wrestlers walked for a long time, and talked about mainly business at first, the subject of the underhanded tactics WCW was using to sabotage WWF’s ratings in the forefront of their minds. 

WCW had been finding out what the results were for the matches WWF put on and had been announcing them on their own show to spoil it for anyone who had wanted to watch RAW. Mark doubted Kevin, Scott, and Kid would do such an underhanded thing but from what he’d heard the three former Kliq members did some pretty underhanded stuff with Hulk Hogan and their new group, the New World Order, or NwO. Hunter was adamant that they wouldn’t do something like that.

As they continued walking they started to talk relax and chat like old friends – one funny tale would lead to ten, and one word would lead to another thirteen stories and that would bring them to a focus that was one-hundred and eighty degrees from the subject they started from until they couldn’t recall what they had begun talking about in the first place. 

After an hour of walking they smelled the enticing aroma of fried food drifting on the wind from a restaurant a few blocks ahead. Their simultaneous stomach-growls were enough to convince them it was dinner-time. They hustled over and went inside, drawing a number of stares due to their size and over-all appearance, but no one seemed to recognize them which they were both grateful for.

Taker plucked two menus off of the hostesses’ station. “What’d you want kid? I’m buyin’.”  
“I can get mine…”  
“Naw-naw, I’m gettin’ this one, you can get the next. Now what’re you hungry for?”  
They looked at the single page laminated menus; Taker had no trouble making up his mind, but his young companion had more of a problem. He listened to Hunter mumble to himself over the din of the patrons for a few minutes.  
“Y’done whisperin’ sweet nothings t’the menu?”  
“What?”  
Taker smirked. “Nothin’. Decided what you want yet?”  
“I think so. But I’d rather get it myself – it’s kind of a big order…”  
“I said ‘no’, so hush. Like I said, you’ll get next time; now tell the lady what y’want.”

The big man put a large hand on the small of Hunter’s back and gently pushed him ahead; he waited as Hunter ordered two chicken sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, onion, no mayo, home-fries as a side and a water to drink. Taker went with their fried chicken, potato salad side, and he passed on a drink, knowing there was a liquor store kitty-corner across the street. All of this they took to go.

After purchasing a six-pack from the store, and after Hunter had thrown away one of the sets of buns in the trash to combine his chicken sandwiches, they walked down the street to a park that was advertised on street-signs and followed the signs to the eating area where they perched atop an old picnic table and set in to their meal.

After eating half of their food in silence, the topic of conversation turned to ribbing – pranks the men and women pulled on each other.  
“Anyone ever gotten you?” Hunter asked around a bite of sandwich.  
“Yeah,” said Taker somewhat thickly through his potato salad, the bones of his meal thrown into the bushes for stray dogs and cats and hungry crows. “Some have pulled some good ones on me, but I ain’t tellin’ – I don’t want you gettin’ any ideas.”

The younger man looked up at his companion with a sly smile. “I know Davey-Boy likes to steal your towels.”  
Mark rolled his eyes with a sigh as Hunter chuckled. “That Limy bastard, I think he just likes seeing me naked with as often as he pulls that shit, but him aside, most people tend t’steer clear of me an’ Poo Bear.”  
“Yeah, I never see anyone picking on him.”  
“That’s because they’d have to answer t’me.” Undertaker smiled as he raised the last of his second beer to his lips. “An nobody, but _nobody_ , fucks with the ‘Taker.”  
The sly smile crept back onto Hunter’s face as he bit into a fry. “I imagine Percy’s got a few good stories about you though.”  
“He does, but he knows what’ll happen if he starts talkin’ about any of them.” He took a long swig of his beer and asked, “How well you know Percy?”  
“Talked with him a few times, I like him.”  
“He’s a great guy, but bein’ a manager he’s very anal – has to have everythin’ set up in advance an’ he’s very concerned with image.” The Texan cracked open a third beer with a knowing smile. “So with my character he won’t let me do the odd jobs like getting’ the tickets for the plane, wash the windows on the rental when we stop, he won’t even let me get out to pump the gas. So,” Mark’s smile turned devious. “I’d manage to pull a few ribs of my own.

“I’d call Anne Russo up and tell her to call Percy sayin’ there was a change in venues so he’d have to switch the itinerary. Once he’d rushed around in a panic and gotten everythin’ straightened out I’d call her again to have her call him back sayin’ there was a mistake and we’d be going back to the original arrangement.” Mark and Hunter both laughed. “It was so funny seeing him freak out and get all pissed off; ‘course sometimes it backfired on me an’ we’d miss a flight or there’d be no rooms left at a hotel, but for the most part it was the best way to rib him.

“Now my favorite rib I pulled on him was when we were drivin’ up north and he had to piss really bad, and I mean _really_ bad, but when we pulled into the gas station he wouldn’t let me pump the gas because he was so worried about my image, and the Undertaker pumping gas was somethin’ that was just not going to happen. So I’m in the front passengers’ and he’s outside in the cold, having to piss, and holding a hose that has liquid going through it…”

Hunter paused in putting another fry in his mouth and his face lit up in gleeful anticipation – he had an idea of where this was going.  
“So I look out,” Taker continued. “And I notice a small dark spot growin’ on Percy’s crotch, and I look at his face – he’s not looking at me at all, but he knows what’s goin’ on down there, and I just bust up, I’m laughin’ so hard I must look like I’m having a fit.”

Recalling the whole scene forced him to stop and join in with Hunter, who had been laughing so hard at the thought of the little man’s face he was to the point where tears were rolling down his cheeks. Getting as much of a handle on himself as he could, Taker proceeded.

“So he gets done with the gas and rushes into the building to finish pissin’; I, meanwhile, good friend that I am, call Vince up and tell him all about it. An hour later we get to the arena and in the locker-room there’s this present all wrapped up with a bow on top and a tag that said ‘To: Percy, From: Vince’ Well he unwrapped it, and you know what it was?”  
“What?”  
“A box of Depends.”  
Hunter howled his laughter, stamping his feet on the bench, shaking the table, holding his sides as he laughed even though he was unable to breathe.  
“Poor Percy,” Taker cried through his own roaring laughter. “He couldn’t fart without me calling up Vince, Pat, Jerry, or JJ and tellin’ them!”

They couldn’t see from the tears in their eyes or breathe from their laughter; they fell against each other, propping the other up while they held their sides. Once they thought they had it under control, the image of a neatly wrapped box of diapers would come to mind and they’d both start up howling again. 

Mark couldn’t quite think straight through their shared jocularity, but there was one thing he knew for sure: His bad mood was completely gone.

* * *

They walked back to the bar where Taker and Hunter parted ways with the kid promising to buy for next time. Contented as he hadn’t been all day, Mark drove back to the hotel, a small smile on his lips.  
 _‘That was nice.’_ He thought. _‘Scratch that – it was real nice.’_

It would later occur to the Texan that this was the first night in a very long time that he’d had a good time without the aid of drugs or alcohol.

As he lay in bed that night, Mark’s thoughts went round and round, thinking about the Curtain Call, his time riding with Hunter, and all he’d learned about the kid in that short month. It had been almost four months since then.

_‘And he hasn’t complained once; not once. Yet he’s been shit on every day since. But he keeps his head held high in spite of all that. How? Because he’s smart and talented, and he knows it, but he also knows enough not to rub everyone’s nose in it; he just let’s his ability speak for itself, and the higher-ups are starting to take notice._

_‘So much dignity.’_ Mark found himself thinking over and over again. _‘So much self-respect. Is there anyone else in the locker-room like that? Off the top of my head I can’t name anyone. God, it’s almost unreal, a clean-cut kid like him being here in this business and having lasted a year without touching a drop of alcohol or gulping down a single pill. I didn’t even last a month back in WCW before I was getting blasted.’_

Images of his first month in WWF flashed through his brain after his whiskey-blurred memories of WCW. Getting in with Jake the Snake early on and partying just as hard to prove himself as much a man as they were and that he could hang with them. It had resulted in him giving himself alcohol poisoning and vomiting stinking black bile, but it had the desired effect, especially the next day when he delivered with the best of them in the ring. He had cemented his place among the boys and no one had questioned him since.

But there were questions aplenty when it came to Hunter, yet the young man didn’t seem to care; the boys could think what they wanted and he’d just continued to do what he wanted. It amazed Mark; it wasn’t an absent-minded shrug-off that Hunter met negative opinions of him with; it seemed more a calculated and purposeful action, a design that many couldn’t fathom, but Mark thought he could see the reasoning behind it, and he was almost certain Hunter had consciously thought it out.

 _‘Clever boy.’_ Mark thought with a smile. _‘Maybe it’s time to bring you back into the lime-light.’_

With that thought, Mark switched off the bed-side lamp and turned over for sleep, with a plan to see Vince McMahon tomorrow as soon as could be managed. 

* * *

At any given time, Vince McMahon had a million and one things to do as the owner and operator of WWF, and on top of those million and one things to do, he had a thousand and one metaphorical fires of various sizes and intensity to put out, but he made sure he always had time for his employees, especially his wrestlers on whose shoulders the success or failure of his company rested. Always, every day there was a line outside of his office composed of wrestlers needing to see and speak to him; sometimes they’d wait an hour or more, and sometimes he couldn’t get to them, but he did his best, and when he was able and when it was feasible he helped in whatever way he could.

He did his best to treat his wrestlers equally, but money was money, and the men and women who were the bigger draws took priority – unless you had the guts to step over everyone in line and walk right in that is; Shawn Michaels did, and it was perhaps one of the best decisions he ever made. The Undertaker had done so before as well with equally good results, and he did so today, bypassing the line and making straight for the other side of Vince McMahon’s desk, being sure to close the door tight behind him.

“Taker!” Said his boss, swinging his hand out to shake; Mark took it – Vince’s grip was strong and their firmness was matched. He seemed in good spirits today. Vince gestured to the chair opposite him as he sat down himself.

“What can I do for you, Deadman?” Vince asked tapping his thumbs together over his relaxed, clasped hands as his employee took a seat. Taker leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  
“I wanted t’talk t’you about Hunter.”

* * *

The day after the Curtain Call, when Vince McMahon had a pale and wide-eyed Paul Levesque, aka Hunter Hearst-Helmsely sitting in front of his desk, he’d had his back against a wall thanks to the bruised feelings of his agents and his wrestlers. 

“I should fire you.” He’d said, and watched the boy’s face drain of color. The kid had looked scared to death – more-so than Vince could ever recall any of his wrestlers looking when they were given such news, but Hunter didn’t protest or flip out, something Vince had been relieved to see, but still braced for.  
“I should – it’s been demanded that I do. But I’m not going to.”

He’d seen the kid’s shoulders relax as he let out the breath he’d been holding; he stayed silent, however, and that was good because Vince wasn’t finished. He went on to detail how Hunter wouldn’t win King of the Ring, that he wouldn’t be winning anything, not even an unaired match for a long, long time. His career was stalled, and Vince didn’t know for how long.

Again, McMahon waited for the protests, for the shouts, for the angry fist to the wall, but once again there was no reaction, just quiet absorption.

“I need to know,” Hunter had said in a voice that was deflated, small trying to sound big and unable to do so. He’d looked into his bosses’ eyes. “Will I have another shot?”

“As far as you and I are concerned,” replied McMahon. “This thing’s done. You and I have no problem, but you still have to pay the piper. You’re going to have to learn to eat shit and like the taste of it. And you’re going to have to eat plates, and plates, and plates of shit. But one day, if you keep your head down and do what you’re told you’ll rise above it and you’ll have another shot. I promise.”  
That day was today.  
He would be facing ‘Wild Man’ Marc Maro for the Intercontinental title.

Marc Maro was a wrestler who knew he wasn’t that good sometimes, and relied heavily on his opponent to carry him through the match. Hunter was a little worried about this, and it didn’t help matters any that all the guys kept coming to give him advice on how to handle a match with the Wild Man, not to mention he had to shine in this match, to prove himself worthy of being brought back. That aside, the most exciting part of the match, other than him winning the strap and the potential to regain trust, was he’d get to share the ring a little with Mr. Perfect Curt Henning. Curt was a real gem and a fun man to work with, and Hunter picked his brain as much as he could in the short one-on-one time they were given; the plan was that Henning would be on Maro’s side throughout most of the match up until the end when he’d turn on the Wild Man and help Hunter win the title.  
It was a good, backhanded way for a heel to win.

It was a solid match; the fans cheered Maro and booed Hunter throughout the whole thing and were all shocked at the dastardly turn Mr. Perfect took by knocking out Maro and letting Helmsley get the pin.

Hunter ended up learning a lot during that match about being an in-ring general, and he proved himself worthy of the Intercontinental title by being capable of performing and leading his opponent around the ring with such smoothness no one could tell Maro didn’t know what he was doing – a fact that was not lost on the boys in the back, and it was not overlooked by Vince McMahon, nor was it unnoticed by the Undertaker. As Mr. Perfect raised Hunter’s arm up to declare him the new Intercontinental Champion, both Vince McMahon and the Undertaker saw for a moment the true potential of the young man to be more than what he was even now. As this image flitted through Taker’s mind it was followed by a flash brought on by the mile-wide grin the kid wore. In it, he saw the two of them back in the park on the wooden table again, laughing and falling against each other, but in the next instant it was gone and forgotten as quickly as it had come, but the feeling remained. He couldn’t help but grin too; pleased beyond measure to see Hunter smiling again.

* * *

The relief Hunter felt was indescribable. It was real. He was holding a real strap. It wasn’t a cruel joke, it wasn’t a dream. It was wonderful reality.

“Good job, kid. Congratulations” Said Henning, clapping him on the back, grinning wide.  
“Thanks for a great match, Hunter.” Said Maro, shaking his hand. Pats on the back and handshakes were coming from all directions, and a big hug and kiss on the cheek from Shawn put the cherry on top.

“It’s about damn time!” Shawn yelled, throwing his arm around Hunter’s neck and leading him to the back. “You did terrific out there, showed ‘em what they’ve been missing. Take a bow, kid; take a bow!”  
Laughing and panting, Hunter did his elegant bow, the belt weighty in his hand.  
“I know you don’t drink, Hunt; but you an’ me, we’re going out to party tonight – no saying ‘no’.”  
“You won’t hear it from me.” Hunter said, still in a daze. “But let me at least shower first, and I’ve gotta call my parents and let them know. I can’t wait to tell my dad!” 

Hollering and jumping for joy was overdoing it, so he kept himself in check and walked back to the locker-room with poise, but in his mind he was racing through the halls of the arena and screaming in triumph, leaping up into the air as he ran in his mind’s eye. He grabbed some change for the pay-phones and left Shawn to pack up their stuff, leaving him to make his phone-call.

 _‘This is it.’_ Hunter thought to himself as he stared down at the white-leather belt with the gold plate and the painted globe, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. _‘It’s over, I’m forgiven, I can move forward. I’m on my way!'_  
* * *

Mark, paused at the intersection of the hallway where the pay-phones were and peered around the corner; Hunter was on the phone talking in a breathless and very happy voice.  
“Yep!…Yep!…Thanks so much!…I won’t, I promise…Yep!…Will do!…Thanks again! Love you all of you! Bye!”

The kid hung up and swung around, pressing his bare back against the wall, a mile-wide grin on his face and hugging the belt to himself. Mark had to smile; he remembered being there, that first big win, that first light of real hope, that first true pat on the back from the company you gave so much for. That wonderful, terrifying, dizzying realization that maybe your dream was possible; it was quite a feeling.  
Mark stepped into the hall. “Well done, kiddo.”

Hunter opened his eyes, dazzling bright hazel shinning with elation at the major step he’d taken tonight.  
“Thanks!” He said, looking down at the belt again. “Can you believe it? Can you? Because I can’t!”  
Mark laughed. “It’s a big honor, for sure. Don’t wanna bring you down, but remember: This isn’t where it ends, it’s just the beginning.”  
Hunter looked up at him.  
“You have to act like a Champion, not just when you have the strap, but even when you don’t have it. Understand?”

Hunter nodded with enthusiasm, undaunted by the reality check; To Mark, he looked more like a fresh racehorse in the stall, ready to start and win another race anew rather than a recent winner.

“That aside,” the Texan said, his smile growing back, clapping a hand on the bare, sweaty shoulder. “Congratulations, kid.”  
The young man glowed. 

Mark shared in the kid’s pride. This was what it was all about. Seeing a kid who worked so hard be rewarded for their effort and to see the pleasure and joy in their eyes when they realize they have it in themselves to be great was something Mark never got tired of. The kid was beaming, and Mark couldn’t help but beam back.

At that moment, the two men thought the very same thing.  
 _‘What a great smile.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Undertaker had any say in ending Hunter's probation, but it's possible.
> 
> The story about Paul Bearer peeing himself is true, as is Undertaker's calling up Anne Russo to mess with Paul Bearer, and same with Davey Boy's penchant for stealing other people's towels, even the Undertaker's.
> 
> The Undertaker is the youngest of five boys.
> 
> There's a quote from Marc Maro saying that he, himself, wasn't a very good wrestler at times, and that Hunter carried him well during their matches together. Not many wrestlers would admit to that.
> 
> Hunter's winning the Intercontinental Championship was the company's way of letting him know that all was forgiven (as far as the business itself was concerned) but you'll still find people in the company to this day who are still chaffing from the MSG Incident.


	11. Logic and Reason Need Not Apply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys try to rationalize.

One of the greatest lies that have ever been conjured up has never been spoken, only seen. The man or woman who walks down the street, head held high, back straight, that faces the world head-on and meets every challenge with the strength and determination to succeed is viewed as having it all together; to the everyman, these people seem to have figured life out and know what to do in every situation. They know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em; they started off life knowing everything and hit the ground running the minute they fell out of the womb.

What no one can see though, is that these people who look so self-assured have no clue what they’re doing, and what’s more is the people who appear to be so in control of their lives are in reality seeing the walls crumbling down around them as they walk through life with such apparent confidence.

Hunter could relate; hell, he could buy a t-shirt.

To everyone around him, both the boys and the office, he’d seemed humble yet confidant in himself and his talent, determined and eager to make it in the business yet calm and collected as he journeyed to get there. On the outside, everything in his life seemed to be in perfect order, but he knew better; inside he was breaking down, sweating hard and shaking like a leaf, and it wasn’t just because of the pressure of his job, bosses, co-workers, and even his dearest friend, though that would have been more than enough. A new problem had arisen not long after he’d started riding with Shawn again, and it was a very big problem. A six-foot-nine-inch tall problem with a Southern accent and a presence as big as the state he hailed from.

There hadn’t been many days since he first started with the WWF that Hunter hadn’t seen the Undertaker at some point or another, but only within the last few months, before and during his ride with him, had he really taken notice of Taker’s size, his form, his gait, his _presence_. It had always been there and he recognized it in terms of respect for the veteran, but over the last month it had changed. In a somewhat enjoyable and very unsettling way.

He didn’t know exactly when it had happened, but at some point an attraction had grown within him, focused wholly on the Southerner. Moments they had shared kept coming back to him – especially that hand: big and warm on the small of his back, fingertips pressing him forward to order his food; shivers of delight ran up and down his spine whenever he thought of it, and they did now.

But this attraction was also the problem; an attraction to the Undertaker? After all he’d just gone through this past year, this shit had to rear its unwelcome head? After finally earning that Intercontinental strap he was going to throw it all out of the window and chase after a man who was not only beloved by the entire WWF Universe and roster, but was also considered the Untouchable, the Unobtainable, the Above-All-Others and not to mention way out of his league? While he was throwing his title out the window he might as well throw his career out too, because there was no fucking way he was going to come out on top if he chased after the Undertaker. It might not be a bad idea to put his own foot on that window ledge and practice flying, because his own suicide would have to follow that of his career. He didn’t want to do anything else with his life. He’d wanted this since he was five! Would he give it all up for a night between the sheets or an extended fling that was unlikely to lead anywhere except a bad reputation, blacklisting, and the death of the one thing he loved doing?

Hell no!

But then again… 

The sudden, sharp snore from Shawn startled him out of his merry-go-round thinking; though he’d been brought back to Earth and the stiff sofa he sat on with an unpleasant bump, he wasn’t all that upset with the sudden shake. In silence, he thanked his slumbering friend.

Shawn had been zonked out on the bed for the past hour, pretty much from the moment he hit the sheets. He was so worn out from this past week. Constant driving and daily matches all took a toll on the Texan’s mind and body, and not to mention the incessant emotional tribulations that bounced around in his stressed skull from morning to night, frets he could only share with Hunter; they all had drained Shawn of what remained of his dwindling energy; thank goodness they had one night off to catch up on sleep before tomorrow’s match. It was rare that Shawn wasn’t up for studying old matches with his friend, but this past week he’d been far from caring much about what other people did since no one seemed to care. Not about the business or about what went into making outstanding matches anymore – what made them unforgettable. At times, to Shawn, it felt like no one but Hunter cared anymore. And now Shawn was losing his will to care. All he had wanted to do this week was forget who and where he was.

Hunter had done what he could to get Shawn’s interest up again, and for the most part he succeeded, but today Shawn just couldn’t find it in himself to recall what mattered. They’d gone to work out, but Shawn had left early. “I’m just not feelin’ it.” He’d said, and left. Hunter had continued alone and as he was walking back he saw his phone was loaded with voicemails of a very pissed off Heartbreak Kid screaming to know where his pills were.

Before they had left, Hunter had hidden Shawn’s pills – a passive-aggressive effort to let his friend know he was getting tired of the drug-use. When he had returned to the hotel, Hunter got a first row seat to the major fit his friend was throwing, and when he refused to tell where he’d hidden the bottles, Shawn almost punched him; instead, he raged up and down at Hunter for near twenty minutes shouting phrases Hunter had heard many times before this, so often he could almost recite them, and did so in his head as Shawn yelled.

“I need them to sleep! If I don’t take them then the pain keeps me up all night! You don’t know the pain I’m in! You don’t know how much it hurts! It’s not like I take them for fun! I’d stop if I didn’t always hurt!”

Shawn had all but torn the room apart while Hunter sat on the sofa and watched with a mixture of annoyance as his clothes were thrown from his bags, amusement from watching his small revenge aggravate his friend, and sorrow, though his consciousness refused acknowledge it as such, sorrow at seeing his dearest friend brought to such a low over capsules in a plastic bottle. 

At last the Texan found them – no hiding place was so secret that Shawn couldn’t find it, not when he was determined. Hidden snug under the small gap between the floor and the bottom of the heavy dresser; twelve bottles Shawn fished out by himself, having to lift the chest on his own because Hunter refused to budge. Shawn rattled the bottles in Hunter’s face, laughing a stage-laugh and sauntering into the bathroom to fill up a glass with water. He’d downed a handful with a smug look and flopped down on the sofa next to Hunter and jabbered on about how he didn’t have a problem and that it was all because he was in such pain that he took as many pills as he did. Hunter listened as he always did, and as he listened he recalled the many times he’d seen Shawn, Kevin, Scott, and Kid snorting heroin and laying strips of acid on their tongues. All he did was sit and watch because what could he do? How could he make them stop? It never worked when he asked them to, and even when he threatened to leave it didn’t daunt them in the least. Sure, they’d slow down, but after a few days they’d start back up again as wild as before.

Perhaps the best thing to do was leave, but watching Shawn ramble on about how he didn’t have a problem guilted him into staying. Who would watch out for Shawn if he left? Who would make sure he got up in time for the drives and flights? Got from place to place? Got him to work out? Made sure he ate when he needed it even though he didn’t feel like he could? None of the boys would, that was for sure; they’d just exacerbate the problem until Shawn’s body gave out and he would be found in a hotel room, dead and face-down in a puddle of his own vomit.

Not even fifteen minutes had gone by before Shawn’s eyelids started to droop and his head bobbed as he’d start to doze off mid-sentence and then snap awake.  
“You’re going to hurt your neck.” Hunter remarked in a flat, unamused tone that didn’t register with Shawn. “Just go to bed.”  
“Yee-shur?”  
“I’m sure.”

The little Texan slurred a goodnight to Hunter, worked off his boots, and curled up under the blankets without changing his clothes. His snores that followed soon after indicated his deep slumber. 

Leaning back on the sofa with his arms behind his head, Hunter stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, his mind a blank slate filled with echoes – a rare thing these days. Too much had been on his brain and the sound of all those worries and thoughts clattering and banging around like gravel in a dryer had become such a constant that he hadn’t even recognized the silence; but now that he’d recognized it for what it was, the clattering, clamoring worries started to tumble around again. The two biggest thoughts weighing on his mind that he could choose from were his worry for Shawn, and his newfound attraction for the Undertaker. Neither was an ideal option.

Maybe some studying would distract him; with Shawn passed out he’d at least have some quiet, stress-free time to himself. For once.

He pulled out the tapes from his duffle-bag - he’d asked for the recorded videos of past matches – today he had requested some specifically, and the rest he asked to be surprised with. Always he requested tapes with the intent of studying the moves and promos of fellow wrestlers to better himself, trying to piece together the psychology and how and why it made the match good or bad. He may have the Intercontinental title, but now was not the time to get comfortable, if anything it was time to really buckle down and focus to prove he was worthy of higher honors.

Like a sign from above, not that he believed in such things to any extent, on top of the pile were five tapes, all with The Undertaker listed as one half of the match-up. He swallowed, his mouth having dried up all of the sudden.

_‘Stop reading so much into nothing. It’s just a coincidence. You asked to be surprised, didn’t you?’_  
Well this certainly qualified. 

With a not-unpleasant quiver in his stomach he shuffled through the rest of the pile – all good choices as far as he was concerned, and popped in a Pat Patterson/Bob Backlund cage match from way-back and with his yellow notepad perched on his knee he watched the match unfold. Or he tried to anyway.

His mind kept flitting back to the stack of tapes with Taker as the main attraction; he wanted to watch them, but he didn’t want to give in to his wants, not now, and if he knew what was best he should never, ever. But he reeeeaally wanted to. 

He stopped the tape in the VCR and shuffled through the stack, wondering what chance had dropped into his lap.  
 _The Undertaker vs. The Giant Gonzales: WrestleMania IX_  
Chance had an odd sense of humor; that was for sure.

Not exactly the type of match he’d had in mind or would even have picked out to watch. The whole thing had been a gimmick match right from the start; from the Las Vegas setting, to the ancient Rome theme outdoors in front of Caesar’s Palace, right down to the wrestler’s entrances to the ring in human-drawn gilded chariots. And that match – wow; what a dozy. They had been trying to put Gonzales over – giants were and always would be a guilty pleasure in this business, so pitting him against the Undertaker would have given him some credence. It hadn’t worked out.

_‘Well,’_ Hunter thought. _‘I guess this would be a good lesson in what_ not _to do when setting up a WrestleMania match.’_

He wiped the hotel TV screen of dust, pressed the VHS into the machine and hit ‘Play’; the screen went from snow to active black. After adjusting the tracking and settling down to watch with his yellow note-pad and pen in hand, he realized he was sweating a little bit, and it wasn’t from the temperature.

The two men stood in the ring, staring each other down, nose-to-nose, or nose to chin really; this was one of the few times the Undertaker was at a disadvantage when it came to size as Gonzales stood almost a full head taller than him. The giant raised his huge hands above his head, and brought them down on his smaller opponent.

Gonzales smacked Mark once, twice, three times in the face, and each time the Undertaker snapped back up, shuffling closer to the giant each time with a severe look of _‘Do it again, bitch – I dare you.’_ written on his glowering face. A thrill of anticipation coursed through Hunter; the match had barely started and already the characters were absorbing him into their story. He was grinning like a little kid.

_‘Ooo! You’re in for it now, buddy! Taker’s gonna kick your ass!’_

The Deadman smacked Gonzales into a corner and at first it seemed Taker would start out with the upper hand until Gonzales grabbed him by the throat and wrenched him into the opposite corner, but before the giant could make use of his position, Taker backed himself up onto the second rope where he stood tall and menacing and wrapped his gloved hand around the giant’s thick throat. The two stood, choking each other until Gonzales threw a low-blow to Taker’s crotch. The man might be dead, but there was one part of him that was still all-too human.

It hadn’t taken long at all before Hunter was really enjoying himself; it had been a while since he’d watched this particular match and he’d forgotten how fun it was. Sure, overall it was silly, and Gonzales couldn’t work for shit – bless his heart; but despite all this, Hunter was getting into it, so much so that for the moment he’d set aside his pad and pen along with his worries to give his full attention to the screen and just be a fan again. Matches like this, whether unintentionally or not, were here for a reason, and this one was here for just plain fun – which was all some matches needed to be sometimes.

When the Giant attacked again, Taker ducked under his arm and punched; he grabbed the huge man’s arm and climbed back up on the ropes and walked like a cat across the top rope. Old School. The crowd cheered their delight. He jumped from the rope, bringing his fist down on the top of his opponents’ back like a hammer and pummeled him into the corner, kicking the huge man in the chest with his long legs. The referee grabbed his arm and told him to let up; Taker turned from the beat-down and menaced the referee, scaring him away. While he snarled over the hapless official, Gonzales caught him in the face with the big boot; taking advantage, the giant knocked the Undertaker down and when he staggered back up the huge man grabbed him and flipped the smaller man on onto his back. When Taker stood back up again, Gonzales grabbed him around the neck with his arm in a reverse chin-lock, Taker flailed, but soon went down to a knee, unable to breathe; it looked to be over. 

Hunter had been watching in fascination as the Undertaker was thrown around the ring by the odd giant in the air-brushed body-sleeve; unconscious guilty delight filled him as he saw the Deadman get the snot beat out of him. The delight was not brought on by satisfaction of the Undertaker being bested, but by the knowledge that he was being _dominated_ – that this unbeatable, supernatural force of a man was being drug around the ring and thrown into the corners by the giant that towered over him. But Hunter did not recognize that feeling as such because he was so caught up in the spectacle.

With the Undertaker seemingly unconscious in Gonzales’ grip, the ref timidly grabbed Taker’s wrist and lifted it – all expected it to fall, but as he dropped it the tattooed arm shot out towards the shiny brass urn Paul Bearer held high, the eerie source of his power. Taker’s strength returned enough for him to get back to a vertical base and elbow Gonzales, but it led to him getting thrown out of the ring to be assaulted with knife-chops and get thrown into the stairs twice. The announcers were having a field day with this.

Then Paul Bearer swooped back in with the mysterious urn and Taker drank up the power. He climbed back into the ring and was knocked down but he came back up, knocked down again only to sit right back up like a zombie from the grave; he sprang to his feet and gave the giant a violent beat-down. Taker at last had the upper hand and pounded Gonzales, chopping at him like a tree, and the crowd got behind him as they cheered him on to take down the giant. Then Harvey Whippleman, Gonzales’ manager, screamed at the referee to stop the match; Taker wheeled around, forgetting about his opponent, and started choking Whippleman over the top rope, throttling him like a rag-doll. Whippleman, even though he was being attacked, saw his opportunity and threw a white cloth into the ring that went unnoticed by the Undertaker and the official who was trying to pry Taker off, but Gonzales saw it and knew what it was. He snatched it up and ran at Paul Bearer, covering the pudgy little man’s mouth and nose with the cloth; within seconds, Paul Bearer fell to the ground, knocked out by the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. Taker, still choking Whippleman, lifted him up above his head with the intent to slam him; not seeing Gonzales creeping up behind him with the rag or knowing that he’d used it on Paul Bearer so the urn could no longer save him.

Gonzales sprang and covered Mark’s face with the cloth of chloroform.

Hunter felt a surge of unexpected excitement watching the big red-head thrash around, trying to fight, but slowly and then ultimately succumbing to the effects of anesthesia; when at last he fell to the mat, and when the camera-man finally got a good close-up of Mark’s seemingly unconscious face, Hunter paused the video.

Lying on his back, eyes closed and red hair fluttering around his pale face, Mark looked…well…beautiful; his lips were parted just a little, enough so Hunter could see the edge of the Texan’s incisors. He suddenly found himself fascinated with the Undertaker’s mouth; he’d never seen it like that before. The young man wanted to get closer to the screen, but if he did the picture would start to separate into shivering fine lines and dots of color. The image of reaching out and touching the white, unconscious face crossed unbidden through his mind and he flushed in embarrassment as though he had broadcast the thought over the hotel intercom.

So he sat on his hands for a while – eyes traveling over every bit of the Undertaker’s face, always lingering on that parted mouth…  
A light bulb flashing on in his head caused him to jump up and dig around in his bag until he found his spiral note-book with the white paper and blue lines and a pencil; plopping himself down where he’d been sitting he drew the image frozen on the television.

He sketched with his pencil, moving fast over the lined sheet like he had been taught, getting the basic form and general placement of the eyes, ears, nose and mouth down on paper. Once that was done he focused on the features themselves, still sketching, still erasing, and still re-adjusting until he was satisfied and moved on to another part of the face, taking a moment or two to hold it away from him and make sure that everything was proportional. At last he worked on refining the lines and adding the fine detail and shadow of the face and hair. 

He sat back and compared the drawing to the image on the screen for a moment – clear differences, but not bad; an obvious likeness at least. It was a drawing he could be proud of, but it needed something.  
 _‘This needs color.’_ He thought. 

Being as quiet as he could manage, he rummaged through his and Shawn’s bags in the dim light, and came up successful with blue, black, and red pens. With black he outlined and shaded. With thin blue lines made by light swipes of pen-tip he shaded the Undertaker’s face, glad he was drawing on white paper so the blue could better enhance the unearthly white of Taker’s face. The blue horizontal lines passing through his drawing were annoying, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was either this or the yellow paper with the red lines. The spiral notebook paper was the better choice.

With the red ink he touched the lips, using the same fine lines he utilized with the blue pen to suggest pink and colored the curling hair in with it, pausing after to run lines of black through it and shading the deep, dark areas of hair. He combined blue and red cross-hatches to make purple shadows under the man’s closed eyes, making it look like he hadn’t had sleep in a long time.

_‘Demons don’t sleep much,’_ Hunter thought with a smile. _‘That, or they don’t allow him sleep.’_

Finished at last, Hunter took a moment to survey his creation. Not bad. The ink had blotted a little in some places, but he’d been able to hide those rather well. Satisfied and very tired, Hunter turned off the television and packed everything back up; putting the notebook into his backpack and settling down in his bed with the deep comfort that only comes from the pleasure of creation and a job well-done.

* * *

_He wasn’t certain where they were – it looked like a room in an underground military base of some kind, but they were both dressed in regular clothes, and seemed to be the only ones in the room – Hunter couldn’t tell as there were no lights on and it was dark. He and the Undertaker were standing side by side, staring with intent at a large, softly glowing black screen with a maze of bright green lines of varying thicknesses depicting what Hunter could only imagine were corridors in a building. It was the only source of light in the room._

_They watched it for a while, neither looking at the other, but in the way of dreams, Hunter could see both of their silent, observant faces at once._

_All of the sudden, Hunter found himself on the floor, on his back, with Taker on his hands and knees, straddling him, his face hovering over his own._  
 _“Do you want me to kiss you?” Taker asked in his deep voice, his blue-grey eyes intent yet calm, just as they were when they had been staring at the screen._  
 _“Yes.” Hunter replied. He was surprised, but not as much as he would have been had this not been a dream, and this was a dream, he was sure._  
 _Mark kissed him. Sudden, but lingering. His lips were soft. Warm. His body was so close to his own…_

_They were back on their feet again, but this time Taker held him tight to his side because their viewing room had been broken into by tall, grey beings with jagged teeth and pointed joints and long, spindly limbs who wished the two of them nothing but harm._

_From his side, Taker pulled out a gun and shot green bolts of light at the creatures; there was a screech as two of them were hit. Hunter felt a gun of his own at his hip and pulled it out, pressing down the trigger. Instead of bolts of light, tongues of yellow fire ‘wooshed’ out in a long stream and burnt the oncoming monsters._

_More flooded in after them, however, and Taker and Hunter ran, flying down corridors so fast and uncontrolled it made him feel ill; they reached a staircase and up it they went. He couldn’t hear the creatures anymore, but they were behind them, and if the two of them didn’t make it to the top of the stairs they were done for._

_It should have been easy, but Hunter found that his legs all of the sudden weighed a hundred pounds each and it was with great difficulty he lifted them from one stair to the other. Undertaker still had his arm and was tugging him, but it was no use; the monsters were coming and there was no escape with Hunter dragging him down. Instead of leaving him, however, Undertaker gave an almighty yank on Hunter’s arm and the two of them were flung to the top and out the door into the sunlight._

_They slammed the door closed, feeling the beasts bang on the other side and even saw their gnashing teeth and clawing hands slip out of the opening that was clearly there, but they’d never get through. This was a dream. They could never get through; the door was locked and even though it bowed out top and bottom so far it might as well have been bent in half the monsters couldn’t get out. In this dream the monsters couldn’t reach them no matter how big an opening they made. They were safe._

_In the orange sunlight, their hearts thudding with adrenalin, the Undertaker took Hunter in his arms and kissed him again, soft and warm, so close and firm, and they both feeling so naked though they were still clothed. Their bodies touching, melting into each other, closer than they’d ever been before, and so ready…_

Hunter woke up, his hips weakly thrusting into the dark, bed squeaking underneath.

Without a second thought in his half-dazed, half-impassioned mind, he rolled off of the bed onto the hard floor, burning his skin on the rough, scratchy rug and situating himself on his back. He needed to take care of this _now_ , but he needed to be silent since Shawn was in the room. Passed out or not, Hunter was still taking a big chance, but he couldn’t ignore this.

He slid out of his shorts, using his feet to strip them off and kicking them far away. Cold air hit his body; he grabbed his shaft and pumped, clutching at his own breast and teasing its nipple, thinking of nothing but that warm mouth and body, pretending in his racing, lustful-frantic mind that it wasn’t his own hands, but large hands gloved in purple, massaging his chest and cock. He imagined the Undertaker looming over him, long black hair hanging down in a curtain and that soft mouth not just kissing his lips, but his body. All over, everywhere, the dark head and warm mouth dipping between his thighs, the long black hair draped over his naked hips… 

He pumped with great rapidity, cutting off the grunts and lusty sighs he longed to make and settling for fast, quiet panting as he sped up. He came hard, choking off his cry, his mouth open as he screamed in silence, his essence bursting out of his body in a fountain onto his sweaty, quivering belly. 

Panting, chest heaving, he came down from his high at a lingering pace, feeling so satisfied, yet knowing it wasn’t enough, and deep in his pleasure-scrambled brain he knew it never would be; his own touch was a poor substitute for what he really longed for. But that was a worry for tomorrow. The night was meant for dreamers.

Enough jumbled pieces of consciousness fell back into place to form a new chapter to the fantasy; in it, Hunter saw the Undertaker hovering over him once more. The bigger man’s grey-blue eyes watched him in their drowsy, heavy-lidded way, and his warm and slick gloved hands touched him, lingering over every inch of Hunter’s own torso. He thought of Taker planting a single kiss on his waist, imagined the sound of the gentle peck, light and damp. Tepid breath dewing his skin as the Texan lapped with slow strokes and poked with light thrusts into Hunter’s navel with his long, wet tongue. There were so many ways that tongue could be used…

Sliding his hand between his quivering thighs again, he gave into his want and his dream and spread his legs far apart with Shawn’s quiet snores in the other bed accompanying his muted gasps for air and the straining bucks of his hips into the darkness.

* * *

_‘It was nothing; it was all nothing, just a stupid dream.’_

He’d been telling himself that since he’d cleaned up after masturbating and lying back in bed, and then getting back up to repeat the process.  
 _‘Dream, jack-off, rinse, repeat.’_  
It hadn’t been helping, but it seemed like the right thing to do. 

He and Shawn had arrived at the arena an hour ago and after putting their stuff up; Hunter found one of the separate rooms and decided to work off his anxiety about this nonsense, getting in a small work-out made him look more ripped for the cameras anyway. Sit-ups were the last part of his warm-up, but he couldn’t keep consistent count of his reps; last night kept rearing its ugly head and forcing him to acknowledge what he had done. You didn’t just stroke one or four out to the Undertaker and move on, oh no-no-no, you had to do some serious mental penance for an act like that, and while Hunter wasn’t religious or spiritual and thought Karma was nonsense, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling embarrassed and guilty, as though everyone was privy to his odd fantasy and knew what he’d done. So he rationalized to comfort himself, his inner monologue playing on a constant reel. 

_‘You’d been around him a bunch these past few months, you’ve been thinking about him a lot and toying with this stupid idea for a while, plus you spent so long looking at him last night when you were drawing him it’s no wonder you had a dream like that – you kept looking at his lips so that’s why you dreamt of him asking if you wanted to be kissed. That’s all!’_

Yes, yes that’s all it was, he was certain. He was, really. Yes. …right? He hoped so.  
There was a knock at the door.  
“Come in!” He grunted, lifting and lowering himself.

When the door opened, Hunter wished he hadn’t called out an invitation because it was the Undertaker who stepped into the room. His heart jumped into his throat and he felt a little nauseous; did the room just get smaller? And did the temperature just go up a few degrees? Oh boy.

Taker was a symphony in black: black denim jeans, big black boots, and a black t-shirt with a rock-band logo blazed in white on the front. Black, black, and even more black with his black hair tied in a very loose pony-tail that allowed locks of hair to float around his face, softening it.

_‘Keep it together, man!’_

“Hunter,” said the Texan. “You got any paper I can have? My notebook’s full.”  
“Sure,” Hunter grunted as he sat back up, glad to have the exercise excuse to not look up at the Texan and to disguise the slight quaver in his voice. “In my backpack, rip yourself out a couple of sheets.”  
“Thanks.”

Raising and lowering himself and paying as much attention as he could to the burn in his gut with each sit-up, he listened to Taker rummaging around in his bag and tried not to think of his dream. Those big hands holding his body. That luscious voice asking if he wanted to be kissed. Those eyes. Those lips. 

“Don’t mention it.” Hunter gasped as he sank back to the floor.  
“You have a good night?” Taker asked as he tore out some pages.  
 _‘I had a sex-dream about you.’_  
“Not too bad,” replied Hunter, giving up, unable to focus on his work-out anymore. “Woke up several times.”  
 _‘Because I was jerking off to you. Several times.’_ Hunter felt sweat break out on the back of his neck and stared hard at the ceiling.  
“Nightmares?”  
 _‘Not really, but it’s horrifying in its own way.’_  
“No, just…weird.” He refused to look over and meet Taker’s eyes, a fact that the bigger man noticed. He only hoped the big man would attribute his reddening face to being flushed from his exercises.  
“What’s wrong?”  
 _‘I HAD A SEX-DREAM ABOUT YOU AND LIKED IT! THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG!’_  
“Like I said, it was just a really weird dream, and you were in it.”  
“Oh? What’d I do?”  
 _‘Lots of things.’_  
“You, ah, we were in a military base and we were fighting off monsters or aliens or something, and we had to run, to get away and, uh, you were trying to tell me something, and I could tell it was important, but I couldn’t understand you. It was one of those dreams where something is sneaking up on you – you can’t see it, but you know it’s there and it’s not scary so much as it’s disturbing.”

Mark seemed pretty interested with Hunter’s made-up description and sat down on the bench beside him, his tall form hovering over the younger man and his big black boots a mere inch away from Hunter’s bare shoulder; Hunter had never felt more uncomfortable in his life.

“Did you ever find out what I was trying to say?” Mark asked.  
Hunter couldn’t help but laugh at that.  
 _‘Yes, yes I did,’_  
“No, never found out.”  
“Huh. Sounds pretty cool. It’d be neat if you had it again and heard what I was trying to tell you.”  
“Eh.” Hunter shrugged, trying to look unconcerned and at the same time avoid nudging Taker’s toe. He did not want to carry on this conversation any longer. “It was just a dream; you were probably just trying to tell me the best place we could hide.”  
“More like the best place to make our last stand.” Taker said; the younger man couldn’t help but look over and up at the Texan seated next to him. Mark wore a confidant leer.  
“I like that version better.” Hunter replied as he rolled up into a seated position. “But I don’t think we have anything to make a last stand against in real life.”  
“You don’t think dreams having meaning?”  
“Not in the sense of prophetic dreams, no; your brain piecing together information you already knew and working problems out on its own, yes.”  
“How un-romantic.” The Undertaker teased. Hunter blushed at his choice of words.  
“I’m a realist.” He mumbled.  
“Oh well,” Taker shrugged, standing. “I guess someone has t’keep their feet on the ground for the rest of us, otherwise we’d all just float away.” He held up the paper. “Thanks again.”  
“No problem.”

When Taker left, after the door clicked shut, the young man let out a breath of relief. That hadn’t been too bad – it could have gone a lot worse. He started in on his warm-down stretches and went over the conversation in his head, scrutinizing it for any indicators he may have let slip about his…might as well call it what it was: his lust. From what he could recall he’d done well, but even so, he couldn’t calm a persistent twinge in his stomach; Taker’s unexpected visit must have startled him more than he’d realized. 

Stretching his legs out on the floor and reaching for his toes, his thoughts went back to the dream, and he told himself that he shouldn’t get too upset over it. It hadn’t really been a sex-dream anyway, they’d just kissed, but it had ended up with him humping air and jerking off several times once he had woken up, so maybe that was close enough, but so what? Lots of people had sex-dreams about people they knew or worked with and it didn’t mean anything. He was just dealing with his issues, with what he felt about Taker. He was mixing up his feelings, he was sure of it; he didn’t know if he was making too much out of the respect he had for the older man – that it had somehow translated into something more than it should be, and-or reading too much into the respect he’d earned from him. Probably something along those lines, and he knew that the sooner he got it out of his head the better. He hadn’t been thinking clearly last night anyway with all the stress he’d been dealing with of late; looking at it today with fresh eyes he could see he’d been making a mountain out of a mole-hill and he was acting silly about this whole thing. Last night all of his frets had manifested themselves in his subconscious by way of an elaborate story that had a strong, if not out-right, sexual flavor. If he hadn’t spent so much time on that drawing then he wouldn’t have had that stupid dream in the first place…

The ignored warning twinge in his stomach suddenly turned into a surge of fear.

Oh shit.

The drawing!

He jumped up and ran to his bag, grabbing the spiral note-book out of it – Taker might have ripped some sheets out; Hunter forgot to tell him to take the paper from the safe yellow note-pad. His thoughts had been so muddled he’d forgotten all about the drawing and that he had it where anyone, even the subject of it, could see. He flipped through the pages as fast and calm as he could manage while still trying to be thorough, but by the fourth search through the notebook he gave in to the sick horror that roiled in his gut.

The drawing was gone. 

* * *

Mark sat on the bench, shirtless; his outfit forgotten as he stared at the drawing in has hands as he had been doing for the past ten minutes. He wasn’t sure what to think. Just one thought continued to pass through his mind.

_‘Hunter drew this.’_ He thought. _‘He drew me.’_

He recalled Kevin telling him once that Hunter was pretty talented when it came to drawing.

_‘Pretty talented nothing, the kid is amazing. But why? Why did he draw me? And…and why did he draw me like this?’_

A knock on the door snatched him from his ponderings.  
“Taker?”  
It was Hunter.  
Without thinking, Mark slipped the drawing under his crumpled shirt on the bench before getting up to answer the door. The widening of the kid’s eyes upon seeing the wide plane of his broad chest did not go unnoticed by Mark – he had forgotten he’d been in the process of changing when he found the drawing. The Adam’s apple in Hunter’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed, his mouth seeming to have gone dry.

“Hey!” The kid said, a little over-enthusiastic. Panicky almost. “Hey, Taker, uh…sorry to bother you, but…was-was there a drawing in those papers you took?”  
“A drawing? I don’t think so.” He hoped the slight, puzzled look on his face was convincing.  
“You…you sure?”  
“Pretty sure. What was it of?”  
“Just a portrait.” It was said in such a small, fearful voice, Mark couldn’t help but take pity on the poor, embarrassed kid; he started to turn back into the room. “I’ll have a look…”  
“Oh! Uh…here, let me…” Hunter had half-rushed into the sitting room, arm reaching out to the sheets he saw on the bench, but stopped in his tracks, realizing how odd he was behaving; he tried to hide his reaching by tucking his hair behind an ear that blushed as red as his face. Mark looked him over with interest, but only for a moment; Hunter watched with dread as the big man picked up the thin sheaf of papers and flipped through them.

“Nothin’.” He said, holding them out for Hunter to inspect.  
“Nothing? So…no drawings at all?” Hunter shuffled through the sheets, slight relief and a large share of confusion written clear as day on his face.  
“None. Was it important?”  
“No,” he handed the papers back. “I was just kinda pleased how it turned out.”  
“Well, keep looking. It’ll turn up soon. It can’t have gone far.”  
“I guess.”  
Turning to leave, Mark wondered in silence, watching the kid retreat; Hunter paused in the doorway.  
“Taker? If you find it…please don’t be offended by it.”

Somehow, the corner of Mark’s mouth tugged up into a half-grin, and though he was troubled, he was curious of the answer; managing to keep his tone so natural and jocular that it surprised even him, he asked, “Why, what’s on it? You drawin’ dirty pictures of me, kiddo?”

Blushing cheeks were all he needed to see. “It’s not…it’s just odd…I-I didn’t know what else to draw.”

The smile on Mark’s face dropped a little, and had Hunter not been so caught up in his frets he would have noticed the reassuring nod and upward twitch of the corners of the big man’s mouth were lacking in the comfort they mimicked and instead were shadowed with the loomings of disquiet and despair, like a grey storm on the horizon.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it.” Mark promised, and with a nod of thanks, Hunter left the room, the door latching behind him with an echoing snap. 

Why did Hunter draw him like that? Mark supposed now he had his answer.

* * *

That night as his roommate, Crush, slept, Mark lay on his hotel bed on his side, facing away from his friend with the bedside lamp on. He held the drawing out over the edge of the bed in the best light. He’d been staring at it for a long time.

_‘He drew me. He drew me.’_

It was so intimate – he’d never realized just how intimate the act of drawing someone was until now. The kid had to have stared at some image of him for a long time and memorized his features – when had he ever looked like that? During a match maybe, that was the only time he could think of, but what match? Where? When?

He imagined Hunter with his pen, drawing the rounded curve of his jaw-line, the closed lid of his eye, the bow of his lips – making sure they were parted just enough, and even hinting at the edge of teeth. He’d drawn in red eyelashes, scruffy chin-strap stubble, shaded in under his eyes – oh the _care_ he’d taken!

Mark felt strange. It was difficult for him to describe; he wasn’t disturbed, not really, but there was an odd feeling stirring deep down inside. This wasn’t like a fan drawing his portrait – in those cases it was the Undertaker they were drawing, never Mark Callaway, and it was always him in generally the same pose: The Undertaker looking menacing, his eyes rolled back, one gloved hand held out to summon the Darkness. If any fans ever drew anything more personal than that, they tended to have the decency to keep it to themselves as a private pleasure, but this was above and beyond anything of that sort. This was someone he’d worked with and had ridden with, even taken into confidence to an extent; and this was such an intimate pose…like he’d been caught sleeping at home or on a sofa in the backstage and the kid had watched him…

The clothing on his body and the heavy hotel blankets covering him might as well have been stripped off for how naked he felt. Tingling warmth trickled between his thighs. Points on his body awakened and tightened; he moved his legs, his knee sliding up as his groin tightening with craving; it was a strange sort of arousal he felt, and though it was a little unsettling in how it came about, he wanted to act on it. But he ignored his body’s needy quivers – at least for the moment; a door had been opened and what he saw lying on the other side required careful consideration – if he only he could concentrate on it long enough, but only one thought echoed over and over in his head.

_‘He drew me.’_

_‘He drew **me**.’_

A not-unpleasant shudder coursed through his hypersensitive body and he whimpered; as fast as he could while trying to be silent, Mark tucked the drawing into the inside cover of his book and set it on the floor by his shoes; he switched off the lamp, not certain what to do – knowing what he wanted to do, but unsure if he should.

Flashes of moments the two of them had shared raced by in his traitorous brain; laughter, smiles, dazzling hazel eyes so joyous and a face so honest and young. Deft hands taking so much time and care to draw a man he worked with every day, and blushing with mortification when the truth of Mark’s questions hit home, but refusing to acknowledge said truth. Neither of them did. And neither of them should. It was for the best.

Yes. It was for the best. And yet…

He listened to the snoring of Crush in the next bed. Crush was a deep sleeper.

In that quiet, dark hotel room, under the heavy snores, muted, damp breathes started up. Slow at first, and then faster, more desperate and needy. Amidst these breathes in the dark, a single, whispered word was released into the night as chill, calloused hands massaged between strong, pale thighs.

“…shit…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Undertaker vs The Giant Gonzales match at WrestleMania IX is a guilty-pleasure match for me, for obvious reasons. I wrote the description as I watched, so if you haven't seen it, that's how it plays out, but you have to stay until the end :)
> 
> I read once that Triple H's 'secret talent' is drawing, and that he designed the art for most of his shirts. Whether this is true or not is up for debate, but I recall that he went to school for graphic arts, so it's very possible, and looking over the Skull King art on his shirts they all seem to have been drawn by the same person, so maybe.


	12. Shotgun Saturday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of a day.

Had it been anyone else in this situation, Hunter would have had a good, hearty laugh to himself. But as it happened, finding himself in this awkward predicament was not all that fun, and he couldn’t find much to laugh about. Every day he walked into a different arena and every day he expected to be pointed and laughed at. He waited and waited for that drawing to brandished under his nose by some cheeky co-worker who knew exactly why he drew it. Every day he steeled himself for the taunts, but none came; no one teased him about it, no one spread Xeroxed copies around the locker room. Nothing happened at all.

With a mind that was reaching for an explanation, he’d grilled Shawn about the drawing – thinking that perhaps this was the little Texan’s way of getting back at him for hiding his pills, but Shawn swore up and down he’d never even known of its existence, and sensing his friend was telling the truth, Hunter saw no need to tell him the content of the drawing. 

Maybe one of the boys had taken it, but how, and if so, when? Hunter didn’t know and it was driving him mad. All day and all through the night he waited for the rib to come. He fretted the following night at taping, but nothing happened. Same for the next night, and the next, but nothing. It was gone like it had never existed. 

Hunter started to wonder about Taker again, but surely he would have mentioned it at some point, right? He wasn’t the kind of guy to go flashing something like that around to humiliate someone, of course, but he would have at least brought it up first thing and would have done so in private – Hunter wasn’t so close to him that he thought he knew all of Taker’s ins and outs, not at all, but he was confident that that was the kind of guy he was.

As if that drawing wasn’t enough to worry about, the dreams had been getting worse. Or better, depending on your view.

Nearly every night since he’d drawn Taker, he’d had dreams involving him, and for nearly all of them he’d woken up highly aroused and in need of release. Hunter would follow Shawn out to the bars and keep an eye on him, then around one or two in the morning they’d come back to the hotel, Shawn would go right to bed and Hunter would go to the gym and get a late workout in. He’d come back exhausted and fall to sleep the minute his head touched the pillow, and that’s when the trouble would start.

Hunter would awaken from the most intense dreams he’d ever had – all involving the Undertaker, and the ache between his thighs indicated his erection that was screaming to be attended to, and with Shawn in the bed he had to be discreet. So he’d limp to the bathroom, turn the fan on, and would pleasure himself in as much silence as he could manage, enjoy the moment more than he could describe, and after coming down, chilled with sweat, he’d burn with shame.

Not all of his dreams had been sexual in nature, just the ones that shocked him awake. The ones that did not involve intercourse were almost as bad though, because they confused him deeply and stayed with him all into the following day. A sex-dream was just that – a dream about sex, but the quieter dreams…they were nice. They’d be sitting close together on a sofa, or climbing on top of boulders in a forest, or wandering through an ever-changing dream-scape, and they’d always be talking. About what, Hunter couldn’t be sure; their conversations were crystal-clear in the dreams, but the moment he’d wake up they’d fade away like an echo, and the sweet sensation of comfort and rightness remained, and it was strong. These were the dreams that would awaken him in the morning, softly, minutes before his alarm would go off; there had only been a handful of them, but they remained bright and crisp in his mind for days after.

But the quiet dreams made him very uncomfortable – they had the sensation of being far more intimate than the dreams about sex, and they left him with an unsettled feeling deep inside that stirred up every time he saw Taker backstage.

He wished he was able to sweep it aside and ignore it all, and though Shawn was a distraction, no amount of his antics could take Hunter’s mind fully away from the dreams he’d been conjuring. He couldn’t help it, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Now every time he saw Taker a quivering occurred in his stomach, sending a melting warmth through his body and his face would flush. If Taker noticed any of this, he never once made an indication. 

Though Hunter honestly couldn’t see how he hadn’t.

* * *

They’d all had to get to New York a day early to film their individual openings. Taker needed to finish his train-driving segment in the subway, and he told Hunter to meet up with him at the station so they could go over their match together.

Hunter was a bundle of nerves as he paced around the station, tugging down on the brim of his ball-cap, not wanting to be recognized, and pulling nervously on his ponytail; this would be the first time he’d have a proper match with the Undertaker. There’d been a match once before back when he was being buried where he’d been corralled by his opponents outside of the ring and backed into the apron where Taker had grabbed him by his hair, lifted him into the ring, and slammed him down for a pin. Before now, Hunter hadn’t really given that match much thought, but now with all of this insanity going on inside his head he could recall the smallest detail of it, and all of it relating to the Undertaker. 

A not-unpleasant shiver ran up his spine and a blush spread across his face; tonight’s upcoming match was just going to be more fuel for the fire, and he hoped against hope that his brain wouldn’t take any of it to heart.

With a heavy sigh he sat down heavily on a bench, chin on his fists, and watched people rush by. This was impossible to live with. What was he going to do? How could he get it out of his system?

 _‘Have sex with the Undertaker.’_ His brain suggested unhelpfully.  
NO! No-no-no-no-no! He buried his face in his hands. That was not an option! And he couldn’t let it be one. There was too much on the line; Taker was respected and beloved by everyone in the locker-room and in the office, not to mention the crowd, and Hunter…He wasn’t the low man on the totem-pole anymore, but being one or two steps up wasn’t something to brag about, and Taker was the Thunderbird perched high above. How could he even think…?

“Hunter!”

Taker calling out his name in the busy station pulled him out of his trance with a thud; the big man jogged over to him, standing almost two full heads over everyone that bustled around him. His long, red-black hair was loose and billowed behind him like a banner as he darted through the crowd, nimbly dodging people and moving luggage dollies. Hunter swallowed, standing up on weak legs, but managed to walk with normalcy up to his co-worker and shake his hand.

“Almost didn’t see you,” Taker chided. “Wondered if you’d ditched me.”  
“No! Never!” Hunter protested more fervent than he should have. “Well, ah…” Hunter glanced around the large station, anxious to hide his face. “Let’s take a look around then; I walked around a bit already and I have some ideas but I don’t know if they’re going to work because I honestly don’t know how much room we’re going to have the night of, and with all these people milling around it’s hard to get a good picture of the area down here.” Hunter stopped speaking abruptly – he had the feeling he was talking too much. Closing his mouth he pressed his teeth down on his tongue, cautioning himself.

The Texan looked around the station. “Did you go up on the balcony?”  
Hunter’s face reddened darker, he shook his head. “No.”  
“The space will look clearer from up there, but let’s have another look around just to mark out where the ring will be.”

Feeling like an idiot, Hunter lead Taker to the center of the station. He’d been too preoccupied with his worries about dreams that going up to the second-floor balcony hadn’t even occurred to him. Now he looked like an absent-minded fool. If only Hunter had known Taker’s thoughts at that moment he wouldn’t have been so hard on himself, because the first thing that had jumped unbidden into Mark’s head when he saw his co-worker was how cute Hunter looked in a ball-cap with his jaunty blond pony-tail pulled out the back.

 _‘Lord!’_ The big man thought. _‘Has he always looked this adorable?’_  
Top it off with the kid’s shy blush and eager behavior, Mark couldn’t help but be charmed. 

“They said the ring would be about right here.” Hunter pointed to a general area near the center of the station, and his face fell a little. “Oh…it just occurred to me…we won’t get a chance to practice before-hand.” 

This normally wouldn’t be a problem, but with a show like this a big move would be expected, and a chance to do a dry-run of said stunt would be welcome. This seemed unlikely as the ring wouldn’t be set up until tomorrow as close to opening as possible, and would be taken down just as fast to avoid blocking travelers more than they would be.

“We’ll work somethin’ out. Let’s go on up,” Taker said, nodding to the stairs. “I wanna see the place in full.”

With Hunter listing off a few of his ideas, they strolled across the open lobby, Mark following just behind, half-listening to Hunter’s assessment of the station space, too busy appreciating the flouncing blond pony-tail. Automatically, he glanced down at the kid’s perky butt wrapped in tight denim. 

_‘Wow.’_ Taker’s eyes widened a little. He forced his eyes back up to look straight ahead just before Hunter turned his head to look make sure he was following and listening, but the moment the kid looked away, they dropped back down; this repeated several times as they walked.

 _‘Aw hell, nothin’ wrong with admirin’ a work of art.’_ Taker reassured himself, smiling as he thought back to the drawing tucked away safe in his bag, and let himself enjoy the view.

They jogged up the stairs, pointing out spots they could use or should avoid, tossing ideas back and forth. Once they got up to the second floor they paused to look out over the scene – it was easier to see just how much space they had to work with, but who knew how many people would actually show up? The ticket sales had been good, but the weather wasn’t, and who knew what would pop up at the last minute for the fans to prevent them from coming? There could be just a smattering of attendees, or the whole station could be full to bursting, they couldn’t know until the night of. 

Hunter beckoned him over to the escalators and indicated the one going down.  
“You can Tombstone me right here, and drop me; I’ll fall forward and ride it down to the bottom.”  
Taker made an uncertain grunt. “Better if I do it back here.” He tapped his foot on the tile just before the escalator stairs. “Yer hair might get caught.”  
“On the plate is fine.” Hunter stepped on the textured metal plate. “It’s feeding out, I won’t get caught. It’ll look better if you do it closer to the actual stairs.”  
It took a little more convincing, but Hunter soon brought him around to the idea.  
“Just watch your hair, alright?” Taker warned after giving in. “I don’t want you getting mangled. Shawn an’ your mom won’t thank me for that.”

They leaned on the railing of the second floor, surveying the bustling scene; it was about lunch-time and a mass of people had poured out of the tunnels in search of a noon-day meal or rushing to appointments. The two wrestlers watched in silence for a time.

“So things gettin’ better for you backstage?” Taker said.  
“A bit.” Hunter fell back, pretending to stretch, and glanced over and down at Taker’s ass. The black denim didn’t give him much, but he could imagine a lot. “It’s still tense with some of the guys, but I think most of them are finally letting up.” 

He was lying. A small handful of people had let up on him, thinking he had been punished enough, but the rest still gave him the cold shoulder for having the gall to be buddy-buddy with Shawn. He didn’t care what they thought because they didn’t know Shawn like he did, but those looks he received still hurt, as did knowing he wasn’t welcome.

“You handled all of that heat really well.” Taker said, nodding to himself. “Most guys would have said ‘Fuck it’ and quit by now.”  
“I almost did, more than once, but Vince assured me that I’d get my chance again, and that’s all I want is a chance.”  
“Well you’re on the right path, that’s for sure.”  
Hunter sighed quietly, gazing down at the commuters; would this ever end?  
“Hey,” He felt a nudge to his arm. “Look at me.”  
A sudden urge to avoid Taker’s eyes overtook Hunter; he didn’t want Taker to see, to know his worries and fears and lusts. Acknowledging them was too much.  
“Paul. Look at me.”  
Taking a quiet breath, Hunter met the eyes of the Undertaker.  
“You’ll get your chance.” Taker said. “Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’. It’s comin’, don’t worry.”

Hunter gave Taker a smile, but it was a half-hearted one. In his brain the cruel comments about Shawn and himself swam like sharks amongst his confusion about Taker to create a murky, sludgy lake he could barely keep his head above. In his mind’s eye he saw the glares and mean-spirited ribs that had been pulled on him in the past months; he turned back to the scene of the lobby where the crowds had died down, trying to hold on to Taker’s words.

_‘It’s coming, don’t worry.’_

_‘I really hope so.’_

* * *

Confidence in himself was something Hunter didn’t have to worry about; he knew how good he was, and knew that nothing was impossible for him to do. But that didn’t stop his stomach from churning as changed in to his gear that evening, and when the limo he road in pulled up outside of the station he was certain he was going to vomit. His heart pounded and he felt overly-warm. The only other time in his memory that he had felt so nervous was his first match in Burlington, Vermont. Or maybe his first match in WCW, or here with the WWF. _‘It feels like the first time’_ he sang in his head, now unable to get the Foreigner chorus to stop playing on a loop. He was shaking all over, but with the Intercontinental title belt tucked under his arm, Hunter exited the vehicle and was almost immediately accosted by one of the interviewers.

“Hunter! Hunter! The Undertaker has the edge and wants that Intercontinental title belt; you could lose it here tonight! What chance do you think the Undertaker has of stealing the title from you?”

He glared down at the interviewer, in full Hunter Hearst-Helmsley mode, and pointed into the train station.  
“He’s got a better chance of seeing me riding one of these stinkin’ trains than he has of me losing the Intercontinental title.” Hunter said flatly, and swept haughtily past.

Stepping into the warm, golden glow of the station, Hunter could see that the lobby where he and Taker had wandered around was now packed, full to bursting, with fans of all sorts. He strode to the top of the stairs and held the title belt high over his head; massive cheers and boo’s greeted him, a crowd jubilant. He strode down the stairs, avoiding the pats of fans while Sunny rattled off a string of snide comments about his not having a woman on his arm since winning the title and she boasted that all he wanted was to get her attention. 

_‘So far, so good.’_ He thought.

He bowed to the crowed and they boo’d louder. And then…

GONG.

The crowd went wild, faces in the crowd turned this way and that, trying to find the main attraction; a cry from a group of fans and the entire crowd looked towards the escalators. Standing at the top of the moving stairs like a demon-king overlooking his fawning subjects stood the Undertaker; from below, Hunter stared up, his face impassive and belying the fluttering of his heart. Even from so far away, Taker cut a striking and mesmeric figure; for a long time Hunter gazed, forgetting where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. When the dark giant began to stride down the escalator, Hunter experienced a moment of panic – why was Taker coming down? His traitorous brain jumped back to his lustful dreams and sweat broke out on Hunter’s body, but just as fast as the memories had come, he jerked back into himself and recalled why they were here. Thank goodness the crowd and cameras had all been trained on the Undertaker.

Speaking of which…

The Undertaker had descended the escalator like he couldn’t wait to rip his opponent apart, tearing the ‘Caution’ tape at the bottom and throwing off the grabbing hands of the fans. Inside his chest, Hunter’s heart pounded as his adrenalin raced through his body, panic, excitement, and arousal flashed through his brain, but when Taker crawled under the bottom rope, Hunter instantly attacked, not giving the Deadman a chance to strike, and not allowing his own arousal to take hold. 

Despite the hammering away Hunter was doing on his head, Taker grabbed the boy by the throat and threw him into the corner turnbuckle where he sold Taker’s gut-checks like Ric Flair. Taker then choked him until the ref slapped him off. Switching tactics, Taker whipped Hunter away from the corner, stopped the kid in mid-whip and whipped him back into the same corner where Hunter slammed hard into the ref who’d been fool enough to get in the way.

Re-grouping, Hunter clothes-lined the bigger man, and while the ref was still in a daze, brought in the Intercontinental title belt into the fight and clocked the Deadman with it, and taking advantage of his upper-hand he dragged the big man over to the ropes and choked him on them by pressing his foot on the back of the Undertaker’s head. The referee pulled Hunter off of his opponent, so Hunter regrouped and changed tactics; he pulled the Undertaker up only to grab his neck and flipped the big man over his shoulder. He stood, backed up, raising his arms to the crowd in triumph, and with a hustle he dropped his knee to the forehead of the Undertaker. 

“Build up and knee-to-face.” Hunter hissed behind the curtain of his blond hair to his seemingly dazed opponent. Turning back to the referee and the crowd, Hunter gestured to his fallen foe and snapped back at the cursing fans; during this repartee, the Undertaker pulled himself back up, using the ropes; Hunter saw and grabbed a fistful of red-black hair, and stood, ready to pummel the Deadman down back into the grave. 

But the Undertaker wasn’t as dazed as he appeared to be; he gut-checked Hunter once, twice, thrice. Again and again until he got back onto a vertical plane and without missing a beat he whipped Hunter into the ropes to set up for the Last Ride, but Hunter was too quick and grabbed onto the Undertaker’s head and slammed it onto his knee. The crowd ‘ooh’ed, feeling every bit of the pain the Deadman was surely feeling with that move.

The Undertaker collapsed to the mat and Hunter took full advantage by stomping on Taker’s head a few times, but the Deadman was taking his vertical plane back. Hunter grabbed him and pushed him back into the corner and delivered a rain of punches and boots to the bigger man’s gut.

“Neckbreaker.” He hissed into Taker’s ear, and turning their bodies back-to-back while still keeping a grip on the Undertaker’s neck, he dropped them both to the mat with a loud ‘WHAM!!’

Hunter covered loosely, sure that he had the win in the bag, but the Deadman kicked out at two. It was clear to the audience that Hunter was frustrated – he had been so sure he had him! He kept himself composed from what the audience could see, and wasted no time regrouping and pushing the Deadman back into the corner and delivering a blow to the chin. But the referee warned Hunter to lay off his opponent’s hair, and that momentary back-turning was all the Undertaker needed. The big man threw a boot to Hunter’s chest, and Hunter returned the favor with a fist to the face. Back and forth until with one powerful blow, the Undertaker knocked Hunter down to the mat; Hunter scrambled up and slapped the Deadman then face-slammed him into the turnbuckle. But he may as well have just slapped him on the back for all the good it did. Instead of the head-slam affecting him, the Undertaker rounded on Hunter, his expression one of a Hell’s Angel who has just had his ass slapped by a weekend-rider still in their business suit.

Instantly, Hunter knew he had made a terrible mistake, and backed off from the lurking menace, holding his hands up and trying to explain and placate the angry monster, but the moment he saw his opening Hunter threw a punch, but it was blocked and returned with interest and Hunter slammed back into the mat. He rolled back up only to be grabbed by the hair and whipped into the ropes, but as the Undertaker set up to flip Hunter as he was slingshotted back to him, Hunter grabbed the Deadman’s neck and DDT’d him hard. Hunter went for the cover, but the Undertaker kicked out at two and sat right back up as though he hadn’t been hit at all.

Frustrated, Hunter grabbed the IC belt and tried to knock Taker out with it again, but the Deadman caught it before it could connect and the big man countered with a kick to the midsection, snatching the belt out of Hunter’s loose grip. The referee tried to take control of the match, but before he could make much headway, the Undertaker threatened to hit him with the belt, scaring him away. His way clear, Taker knocked Hunter out with a belt to the face. The referee called for the bell and for the Undertaker’s automatic disqualification; fearful of retaliation by the Undertaker, the referee fled for his life. The crowd, however, wasn’t ready for the match to end, and they chanted for the Tombstone Piledriver. Not one to disappoint, the Undertaker grabbed his prone opponent by throat and delivered the Tombstone to enormous cheers of approval. 

Flipping his hair, the Undertaker pointed at belt, and with great support from the screaming crowd he mimed a throat slitting. Hunter, however, wasn’t as enthusiastic about the idea and scooted out of the ring with haste, retreating for the safety of the second level, the Deadman lumbering after him. On all fours he scurried up the cold stairs, but the Undertaker caught up and grabbed his ankle; Hunter rolled onto his back and kicked out, connecting with the big man’s face and stumbled up to the top of the stairs, staggering in the direction of the escalator. He knew what was coming, but when the big gloved hand clapped down on his shoulder and turned him around his heart still jumped into his throat. The Undertaker, standing tall, dark, and menacing behind him, grabbed him; in that little moment, Undertaker said through his long hair, “Tombstone.” and snatched Hunter up and the young man’s whole world flipped.

His head hung down over Taker’s chest with the big man’s gloved hand grasping the back of his neck. His legs dangled; Taker’s shoulder dug into his gut. For a moment, as when he had first seen Taker at the top of the escalator, Hunter forgot what they were doing, what they were about to do. He forgot everything. The big man walked away with him, and the body he felt under his own suddenly became too real, too close; unbidden, the thought of the Undertaker carrying him away to some dark and secluded area against his will for reasons unknown sprang to mind, and the arousal he’d pushed down once Taker got into the ring came rushing back with a vengeance.

“Don’t get yer hair caught in the damn escalator.” Taker growled.  
Hunter came back to himself at once, and now his stomach churned at the thought of what he had to do. “Okay.” He gasped back. He heard the whirring of the escalator underneath him, how was it so loud? Were they there already? Its whir was even louder even than the cries from the audience. Taker maneuvered him so they were face-to-crotch with each other, but Hunter was too focused to care. With Taker’s strong arms around his middle he, himself, hugged Taker’s waist, and closed his eyes, heart pounding, trusting his partner to execute the move properly. He felt Taker drop, his breath caught in his chest and his heart was in his throat, but he was relaxed; his head was cushioned by Taker’s muscular thighs, and though the ‘thud’ of the resulting impact jarred him a little, Hunter rebounded in the blink of an eye and let himself fall, feeling Taker’s hand follow his body down for as long as it could, trying to gentle the landing. The teeth of the escalator stairs bit into Hunter’s bare back when he landed, scraping and cutting his skin; he rolled up and fell against the railing wall. Taker’s hand left him, and he could hear the Texan hiss to him over the cheers of the crowd.  
“Watch the hair-watch the hair-watch the hair!”

Hunter rode the escalator down to the floor, seemingly passed out against the wall, two referees worrying over him all the way to the bottom where they pulled him back to his feet, put his arms over their shoulders, and helped him through the jeering and applauding crowd back to the closed off section of the train station where all the wrestlers waited and applauded him. 

The Godwinns – Henry and Phineas, who’s match had been before his and Taker’s, were at the front of the group and clapped him on the back and hugged him roughly – ever since the series of pig-pen matches the three of them had together, Henry and Phineas had put Hunter in their good books and treated him well. A number of the boys and ladies came up to shake Hunter’s hand as well and congratulate him, but most refrained, choosing to show their appreciation by clapping and leaving it at that. It was frustrating, but what could Hunter do? He thanked the referees, shook their hands, and strode on alone past a group of wrestlers in the back who had refused to even clap. Hunter could feel their eyes boring into him, daring him to complain about their lack of appreciation, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction. 

That sort of nonsense didn’t matter at the moment. He’d done it, he’d survived the match; nothing to worry about now.

Well, almost nothing.

A burst of applause, much louder than the one he’d been given, echoed behind him; Taker had just come back. The congratulations and adulation the other wrestlers gave Taker was audible in the empty hallway he walked down; he paused to listen and felt a twinge in his chest. It was difficult for Hunter to process his own thoughts as he continued walking; the breath-taking awe he’d felt in the ring when he saw Taker, and the mind-numbing arousal when he’d been hefted onto the Texan’s shoulder was now mingling with envy and upset at the unfairness of it all. He understood why Taker got the bigger pop, but…damn it, he’d worked just as hard on this match. When were the boys going to let up on him?

“Hey, Hunter!”

He almost squeaked aloud, Taker’s voice snapped him back to reality and he was surprised to find that the big man had managed to get so close behind him without him noticing – he really needed to stop getting so lost in thought. What startled him the most, however, was that the big Texan was grinning from ear to ear.

“That was great, kid; we stole the damn show! You were amazing!”  
“Really? T-thanks!” Hunter blushed, smiling broad, but was seized with a sudden shyness and looked away in haste, tucking loose hair behind his ear. He wasn’t sure he could handle talking to the Texan at the moment.

“Hey, look at me.” 

Tentative, Hunter looked back up.  
“I’m serious, kid; you did a great job tonight, and I’m glad you talked me into the escalator Tombstone. That was a spot the boys’ll be talkin’ about for weeks.”

A little bit of pride pushed Hunter’s anxiety away for a moment and extinguished his envy and sense of injustice; his face flushed even redder, and the pleased grin that spread over his face he allowed to shine as Taker continued. “I want you to know that you’re a good worker, kid; and if I could pick teams, you’d be on mine. You can run with me any day.”

With that, all the memories of the angry faces, mean words and pranks lost their power with Taker’s words; knowing that the Undertaker, the pinnacle of what a wrestler should be, thought so highly of him, disarmed every wrestler in the back who tried to put Hunter down. The half-hearted clappers and the group that refused to acknowledge his accomplishment dropped away, and even his intruding dreams were all forgotten.

 _‘It’s all worth it, just to hear you say that.’_ Hunter thought, but all he could manage was an excited, “Thank you! It’s always a pleasure working with you, Take.”

From behind them, the Godwinns called out to Taker and Hunter to watch the next match with them. Clapping Hunter on the shoulder, Taker pulled him along to where one of the many televisions were set up, and as Hunter trotted alongside the Undertaker there was a bounce in his step and a lightness in his heart that hadn’t been there for a long time.

* * *

_He was in the middle of the ring, listening to the roar of the crowd; it was odd that they were cheering for him – he was a heel after all. It was also a bit odd that he was naked too, not even a shoe or sock on his foot to make it a proper streaking, but this didn’t concern him – being naked in the ring wasn’t that strange; he’d had this kind of dream before, most all wrestlers did. He wasn’t concerned about forgetting his lines for the promo or any of the spots for this match though; the only thing he wasn’t sure of was who his opponent was going to be. Oh well, whoever it was they’d tear the house down. His confidence was through the roof as he bounced from rope-to-rope, warming up, enjoying the sensation of warm air on his bare skin and the light, worry-free attitude he was feeling. The responsive crowd roared their praise. This was his night, their night; nothing could go wrong. This would be one for the books and a night that the audience would cherish forever, he could feel it._

_When he turned to bounce off of the ropes again, he spotted his opponent in the far corner._

_The Undertaker, dressed in black boots, black trench, black hat and grey gloves._

_The crowd cheered and the bell rang._

_Instead of rushing each other, the two wrestlers sized each other up in silence, and as Hunter watched, The Undertaker removed his trench, taking hold of the lapels and shrugging it off one shoulder then the next._

_Underneath he wore nothing but tall boots, his gloves, and his hat._

_Before he knew what to think, Taker was right in front of him, so close patches of their sweat-sticky skin touched and briefly melded together._

_Gloved fingers from one hand brushed his cheek while the other slid down his spine._

_Warm. It was so very warm._

_A glove-sheathed thumb slid over his lips, clear blue-green eyes held his gaze without effort, and from the Undertaker a deep, throaty voice, no louder than a spoken word in passing, rumbled through the arena and reverberated inside Hunter’s chest._

_“Do you want me to kiss you?”_  
Hunter was breathless. “Yes…yes…”  
“Where?” 

_He sucked in a sharp breath as his body reacted to Taker’s voice, every part of him crying out to volunteer for the honor._

_“Where?”_

_He couldn’t speak, and his arms wouldn’t work; his breathing quickened and became shriller. Taker took pity on him and sank down, planting a kiss between Hunter’s heaving breasts; he could feel his nipples tighten and tingle, and he begged silently for Taker to answer them. With soft, warm lips, Taker did as he wished, bestowing a lingering, tender kiss for each. A little cry escaped Hunter’s throat…_

 

He awoke to his own lusty breathing and sighs, his own writhing limbs that had kicked the sheets half off of him, and a swelled erection tenting his boxers.

_‘Oh god! Oh god! Yes!'_

Sweeping his eyes over towards Shawn’s mercifully empty bed, Hunter grabbed himself and pumped, keeping the image and sensations alive in his mind as he pleasured himself, cumming hard and hot into his hand. After collapsing back into the bed, sweaty and panting as though he’d run the length of a football field, he grinned and laughed, feeling so good, so gratified, so…the smile left his face.

_‘Oh no…’_

It hadn’t stopped, it was worse.

“Oh no…” He moaned, covering his face with his clean hand and rolling to bury his burning face into his pillow. “No-no-no-no-no-no- _NO!_ ”

He couldn’t believe it, not again! Why wouldn’t it stop? Angry with himself, he snatched up yesterday’s shirt from the floor by his bed and cleaned himself up, throwing it back down in disgust. With a whimper, he grabbed the blankets and threw them over his head; it was very hot under the sheets and smelled like sweat and musk, but he refused to come up for air, feeling that he needed some kind of punishment. Unable to stand it any longer, he uncovered his head and breathed in cool, clean air, but refused to fan himself and lower the rest of his temperature.

He should have known better, after a day like today and a match like that, how could this not have happened? But he’d had such a good time with Taker and the Godwinns watching the rest of Shotgun Saturday Night like a fan; he’d had fun listening to the three of them laugh about botched moves and crazy road-trips. He’d sincerely thought he’d gotten any sexual need out of his system when he went to lift at the gym afterwards – he’d even had a chuckle about it as he slid under the covers. Jesus, what was he going to do? Why wouldn’t this leave him alone? 

He didn’t think it would be possible, but exhaustion from his intense orgasm took him over faster than he could have expected and he mercifully began to drift off into dreamless sleep, hearing the door open and thinking with relief that at least it had happened before Shawn came back from partying. Thank god for small favors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Players: Triple H, the Undertaker
> 
> This...took far longer than it should have. At first I was being lazy. Then I wasn't sure where to go with it. Then life became crazy and I went from job to job. Now things are back on track, and this story is no exception.  
> I am so sorry for the two year-long wait, it's not what I wanted to happen and I thought about all of you who were patiently waiting for this chapter every time I opened this story back up and hated that I was making you wait. I apologize and will do better in the future.
> 
> Shotgun Saturday Night aired late night in different locations in New York City, it was WWF's answer to ECW's edgier matches. This particular match took place in Penn Station in New York City on February 8, 1997.
> 
> THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. All the above characters belong to WWE and Vince McMahon. I am not making any profit off of this.


End file.
